.   ).  ftnibba 


SUNNY  MATEEL. 

THE  SUNGAZERS. 

TEMESCAL. 

WILD  HORSES. 

SADDLE  SONGS. 

PARTNERS  OF  CHANCE. 

SONGS  OF   THE   TRAIL.    With  decorative 

sketches. 
THE  RIDIN1   KID  FROM    POWDER  RIVER. 

With  colored  frontispiece. 
TANG     OF     LIFE.     Illustrated  in  color  by 

E.  BOYD  SMITH. 
RIDERS  OF  THE  STARS. 
SUNDOWN   SLIM.     Illustrated. 
SONGS  OF  THE  OUTLANDS.    Tales  of  the 

Hoboes  and  Other  Verse. 
OVERLAND  RED.     A  Tale  of  the  Moonstone 

Canon  Trail.     Illustrated  in  Color. 
STEPHEN  MARCH'S    WAY.     Illustrated. 
LOST  FARM  CAMP.     Illustrated. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


Tang  of  Life 


Tang  of  Life 


By 

Henry  Herbert  Knibbs 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

Vfe  KitertfOie  $rt«0  Camfaribse 


COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BY  STREET  ft  SMITH  CORPORATION 
COPYRIGHT,  XQlS,  BY  HENRY  H.  KNIBBS 

ALL   RIGHTS    RESERVED 

Published  August  iqtB 


To 

Robert  Frothingham 


663077 


Contents 

I.  The  Cafion     .      ;•;..;.     .      .      .      1 

H.  JosSVaca       ;      .'     .;      .      ..    .      .      .      9 

HI.  Donovan's  Hand         .      .      .      .      ...    20 

IV.  The  Silver  Crucifix      .      .      ...      .32 

V.  The  Tang  of  Life         .      .      .      .      ;      .41 

VI.  Arizona 51 

VII.  The  Return  of  Waring      ;      .      .      .      .    68 

VIII.  Lorry       .;.......    79 

IX.  High-Chin  Bob     .      .      .      .      .      .      .88 

X.  East  and  West      .      .      ...      .      .98 

XI.  Spring  Lamb 110 

XII.  Bud  Shoop  and  Bondsman       .      .      .      .  125 

XIII.  The  Horse  Trade         .      .      .      .      .      .135 

XIV.  Bondsman's  Decision        .      .      «      .      .  145 
XV.  John  and  Demijohn     .      ....      .157 

XVI.  Play 171 

XVII.  Down  the  Wind    .      .      ....      .183 

XVIII.  A  Piece  of  Paper  .      .      .      .      .      .      .197 

XIX.  The  Fight  in  the  Open       .      .      .      .      .  208 

XX.  City  Folks .225 

XXI.  A  Slim  Whip  of  a  Girl       *..„-  ./    ..      .      .  237 

XXII.  A  Tune  for  Uncle  Bud 248 

ix 


Contents 

XXIII.  Like  One  Who  Sleeps  ......  256 

XXIV.  The  Genial  Bud    .      .      .      •      .      .      .265 
XXV.  The  Little  Fires    *     i      .      .      .      .      .274 

XXVI.  Idle  Noon      ........  289 

XXVII.  Waco       .      .      .      .t     .      *      .      .      .302 

XXVIII.  A  Squared  Account     .    = 314 

XXIX.  Bud's  Conscience      ..     *.     %      .      .      .332 
XXX.  In  the  Hills    .      .     *  '  <.      .      .      .      .339 

XXXI.  In  the  Pines   .      .      .      .      .     .\      i;     .  349 

XXXII.  Politics     .      .     >    >.      .    ,.      .      .      .356 

XXXIII.  The  Fires  of  Home      .      .      .      .      .      .  365 

XXXIV.  Young  Life     .      .      . .  .,,. ..:,v      4      .      .375 
XXXV.  The  High  Trail     .  _  *    *: .   ,    .,.     ^      .383 


TANG  OF  LIFE       • 

Chapter  I 
The  Canon 

WARING  picketed  his  horse  in  a  dim 
angle  of  the  Agua  Fria  Canon,  spread 
his  saddle-blanket  to  dry  in  the  after- 
noon sun,  and,  climbing  to  a  narrow  ledge,  surveyed 
the  canon  from  end  to  end  with  a  pair  of  high-power 
glasses.  He  knew  the  men  he  sought  would  ride 
south.  He  was  reasonably  certain  that  they  would 
not  ride  through  the  cafion  in  daylight.  The  natural 
trail  through  the  Agua  Fria  was  along  the  western 
wall;  a  trail  that  he  had  avoided,  working  his  toil- 
some way  down  the  eastern  side  through  a  labyrinth 
of  brush  and  rock  that  had  concealed  him  from  view. 
A  few  hundred  yards  below  his  hasty  camp  a  sandy 
arroyo  crossed  the  canon's  mouth. 

He  had  planned  to  intercept  the  men  where  the 
trail  crossed  this  arroyo,  or,  should  the  trail  show 
pony  tracks,  to  follow  them  into  the  desert  beyond, 
where,  sooner  or  later,  he  would  overtake  them.  They 
had  a  start  of  twelve  hours,  but  Waring  reasoned 
that  they  would  not  do  much  riding  in  daylight. 
The  trail  at  the  northern  end  of  the  canon  had  shown 


Tang  of  Life 

mfc  -fresh,  tracks  that  morning.  His  problem  was 
si&^te.,  Tixe  &nfc\Fer  w.ould  be  definite.  He  returned 
to  the  shelter  of  the  brush,  dropped  the  glasses  into 
a  saddle-pocket,  and  stretched  himself  wearily. 
*-.  A  few  yards  below  him,  on  a  brush-dotted  level, 
his  horse,  Dexter,  slowly  circled  his  picket  and  nib- 
bled at  the  scant  bunch-grass.  The  western  sun 
trailed  long  shadows  across  the  canon;  shadows  that 
drifted  imperceptibly  farther  and  farther,  spreading, 
commingling,  softening  the  broken  outlines  of  ledge 
and  brush  until  the  walled  solitude  was  brimmed 
with  dusk,  save  where  a  red  shaft  cleft  the  fast- 
fading  twilight,  burning  like  a  great  spotlight  on  a 
picketed  horse  and  a  man  asleep,  his  head  pillowed 
on  a  saddle. 

As  the  dusk  drew  down,  the  horse  ceased  grazing, 
sniffed  the  coming  night,  and  nickered  softly.  War- 
ing rose  and  led  the  horse  to  water,  and,  returning, 
emptied  half  the  grain  in  the  morral  on  a  blanket. 
Dex  munched  contentedly.  When  the  horse  had 
finished  eating  the  grain,  Waring  picketed  him  in  a 
fresh  spot  and  climbed  back  to  the  ledge,  where  he 
sat  watching  the  western  wall  of  the  canon,  occasion- 
ally glancing  up  as  some  dim  star  burned  through 
the  deepening  dusk  and  bloomed  to  a  silvery  ma- 
turity. 

Presently  a  faint  pallor  overspread  the  canon  till 
it  lay  like  a  ghostly  sea  dotted  with  strange  islands 
of  brush  and  rock;  islands  that  seemed  to  waver  and 


The  Canon 

shift  in  a  sort*t>f  vague  restlessness,  as  though  trying 
to  evade  the  ever-brightening  tide  of  moonlight  that 
burned  away  their  shrouds  of  dusk  and  fixed  them 
in  still,  tangible  shapes  upon  the  cation  floor. 

Across  the  canon  the  farther  trail  ran  past  a  broad, 
blank  wall  of  rock.  No  horseman  could  cross  that 
open  space  unseen.  Waring,  seated  upon  the  ledge, 
leaned  back  against  the  wall,  watching  the  angling 
shadows  shorten  as  the  moon  drew  overhead.  Toward 
morning  he  became  drowsy.  As  the  white  radiance 
paled  to  gray,  he  rose  and  paced  back  and  forth  upon 
the  narrow  ledge  to  keep  himself  awake.  In  a  few 
minutes  the  moon  would  disappear  behind  the  farther 
rim  of  the  world;  the  canon  would  sink  back  into  its 
own  night,  all  its  moonlit  imageries  melting,  vanish- 
ing. In  the  hour  before  dawn  Waring  would  be  unable 
to  see  anything  of  the  farther  wall  save  a  wavering 
blur. 

Just  below  him  he  could  discern  the  outline  of  his 
horse,  with  head  lowered,  evidently  dozing.  Having 
in  mind  the  keenness  of  desert-bred  stock,  he  watched 
the  horse.  The  minutes  drifted  by.  The  horse  seemed 
more  distinct.  Waring  thought  he  could  discern  the 
picket  rope.  He  endeavored  to  trace  it  from  horse  to 
picket.  Foot  by  foot  his  eyes  followed  its  slack  out- 
line across  the  ground.  The  head  of  the  metal  picket 
glimmered  faintly.  Waring  closed  his  eyes,  nodded, 
and  caught  himself.  This  time  he  traced  the  rope 
from  picket  to  horse.  It  seemed  a  childish  thing  to 

3 


Tang  of  Life 

do,  yet  it  kept  him  awake.  Did  he  imagine  it,  or  had 
the  rope  moved? 

Dex  had  lifted  his  head.  He  was  sniffing  the  cool 
morning  air.  Slowly  the  tawny-golden  shape  of  the 
big  buckskin  turned,  head  up  and  nostrils  rounded  in 
tense  rings.  Waring  glanced  across  the  caflon.  The 
farther  wall  was  still  dim  in  the  half-light.  In  a  few 
minutes  the  trail  would  become  distinct.  Dropping 
from  the  ledge,  he  stepped  to  his  saddle.  Dex  evi- 
dently heard  him,  for  he  twitched  back  one  ear,  but 
maintained  his  attitude  of  keen  interest  in  an  invis- 
ible something  —  a  something  that  had  drawn  him 
from  drowsy  inanition  to  a  quietly  tense  statue  of 
alertness.  The  ash  gray  of  the  farther  wall,  now  vis- 
ible, slowly  changed  to  a  faint  rose  tint  that  deepened 
and  spread. 

Waring  stooped  and  straightened  up,  with  his 
glasses  held  on  the  far  trail.  A  tiny  rider  appeared  in 
the  clear  blue  circle  of  the  binoculars,  and  another, 
who  led  two  horses  without  saddles  or  packs.  The 
men  were  headed  south.  Presently  they  disappeared 
behind  a  wall  of  brush.  Waring  saddled  Dex,  and, 
keeping  close  to  the  eastern  wall,  rode  toward  the 
arroyo. 

The  morning  sun  traced  clean,  black  shadows  of 
the  chaparral  on  the  sand.  The  bloom  of  cacti 
burned  in  red  and  yellow  blotches  of  flame  against 
its  own  dull  background  of  grayish-green.  At  the 
mouth  of  the  arroyo,  Waring  dismounted  and  dropped 

4 


The  Canon 

the  reins.  Dex  nosed  him  inquiringly.  He  patted 
the  horse,  and,  turning,  strode  swiftly  down  the 
dry  river-bed.  He  walked  upright,  knowing  that  he 
could  not  be  seen  from  the  trail.  He  could  even 
have  ridden  down  the  arroyo  unseen,  and  perhaps 
it  was  a  senseless  risk  to  hunt  men  afoot  in  this 
land.  The  men  he  hunted  were  Mexicans  of  Sonora; 
fugitives.  They  would  fight  blindly,  spurred  by  fear. 
Waring's  very  name  terrorized  them.  And  were  they 
to  come  upon  the  gringo  mounted,  Waring  knew  that 
there  was  more  than  a  chance  his  horse  would  be  shot. 
He  had  a  peculiar  aversion  to  running  such  a  risk 
when  there  was  half  a  chance  of  doing  his  work  on 
foot. 

Moreover,  certain  Americans  in  Sonora  who  dis- 
liked Waring  had  said  recently  that  no  man  was  quick 
enough  to  get  an  even  break  with  the  gunman,  which 
tentatively  placed  him  as  a  "killer,"  whereas  he  had 
never  given  a  thought  to  the  hazard  when  going  into 
a  fight.  He  had  always  played  the  game  to  win,  odds 
either  way.  The  men  he  sought  would  be  mounted. 
He  would  be  on  foot.  This  time  the  fugitives  would 
have  more  than  a  fair  chance.  They  would  blunder 
down  the  pitch  into  the  arroyo,  perhaps  glancing 
back,  fearful  of  pursuit,  but  apprehending  no  am- 
bushment. 

Waring  knew  they  would  kill  him  if  they -could. 
He  knew  that  not  even  a  fighting  chance  would  have 
been  his  were  they  in  his  place  and  he  in  theirs.  He 

5 


Tang  of  Life 

was  deputized  and  paid  to  do  just  what  he  was  doing. 
The  men  were  bandits  who  had  robbed  the  paymaster 
of  the  Ortez  Mines.  To  Waring  there  was  nothing 
complicated  about  the  matter.  It  was  his  day's  work. 
The  morning  sun  would  be  in  their  faces,  but  that  was 
not  his  fault. 

As  Waring  waited  in  the  arroyo  the  faint  clatter 
of  shod  hoofs  came  from  above.  He  drew  close  to  a 
cutbank,  leaning  his  shoulder  against  it  easily.  With 
a  slither  of  sand,  the  first  horse  took  the  pitch,  legs 
angled  awkwardly  as  he  worked  down.  The  second 
rider  followed,  the  led  horses  pulling  back. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  arroyo,  the  Mexicans  reined 
up.  The  elder,  squat,  broad  of  back,  a  black  hand- 
kerchief tied  round  his  thick  neck,  reached  into  his 
pocket  and  drew  out  tobacco  and  cigarette  papers. 
The  other,  hardly  more  than  a  boy,  urged  that  they 
hasten.  Fear  vibrated  in  his  voice.  The  squat  Mexi- 
can laughed  and  began  to  roll  a  cigarette. 

None  had  overtaken  them,  he  said.  And  were  they 
not  now  in  the  Land  Where  No  Man  Lived? 

"Si!  "said  Waring  softly. 

The  half -rolled  cigarette  fluttered  to  the  ground. 
The  Mexican's  heavy  lip  sagged,  showing  broken 
teeth.  His  companion  dropped  the  lead-rope  and 
turned  to  gaze  at  Waring  with  eyes  wide,  wondering, 
curious.  The  led  horses  plunged  up  the  back  trail. 
Waring  made  no  movement  toward  his  gun,  but  he 
eyed  the  elder  Mexican  sharply,  paying  little  atten- 

6 


The  Canon 

tion  to  the  youth.  The  horse  of  the  squat  Mexican 
grew  restless,  sidling  toward  the  other. 

Waring's  lips  tightened.  The  bandit  was  spurring 
his  horse  on  the  off  side  to  get  behind  his  companion. 
Evidently  the  numbness  of  surprise  had  given  way  to 
fear,  and  fear  meant  action.  Waring  knew  that  the 
elder  Mexican  would  sacrifice  his  companion  for  the 
sake  of  a  chance  of  killing  the  gringo. 

Waring  held  out  his  left  hand.  "Give  me  your 
gun,"  he  said  to  the  youth.  "And  hand  it  down  butt 
first." 

The  youth,  as  though  hypnotized,  pulled  out  his 
gun  and  handed  it  to  Waring.  Waring  knew  that  if 
the  other  Mexican  meant  to  fight  it  would  be  at  that 
instant.  Even  as  the  butt  of  the  gun  touched  War- 
ing's  hand  it  jumped.  Two  shattering  reports 
blended  and  died  echoless  in  the  close-walled  arroyo. 

The  Mexican's  gun  slipped  slowly  from  his  fingers. 
He  rocked  in  the  saddle,  grasped  the  horn,  and  slid  to 
the  ground.  Waring  saw  him  reach  for  the  gun  where 
it  lay  on  the  sand.  He  kicked  it  aside.  The  Mexican 
youth  leaped  from  the  saddle  and  stood  between 
Waring  and  the  fallen  man.  Waring  stepped  back. 
For  an  instant  his  eyes  drew  fine.  He  was  tempted 
to  make  an  end  of  it  right  there.  The  youth  dropped 
to  his  knees.  A  drift  of  wind  fluttered  the  bandanna 
at  his  throat.  Waring  saw  a  little  silver  crucifix 
gleaming  against  the  smooth  brown  of  his  chest. 

"If  it  is  that  I  am  to  die,  I  am  not  afraid,"  said  the 


Tang  of  Life 

youth.  "I  have  this!"  And  his  fingers  touched  the 
crucifix.  "But  you  will  not  kill  my  uncle!" 

Waring  hesitated.  He  seemed  to  be  listening.  And 
as  though  in  a  dream,  yet  distinct  —  clear  as  though 
he  had  spoken  himself  came  the  words:  "It  is 
enough!" 

"  Not  this  journey,"  said  Waring. 

The  Mexican  youth  gazed  at  him  wonderingly. 
Was  the  gringo  mad? 

Waring  holstered  his  gun  with  a  jerk.  "Get  up  on 
your  hind  legs  and  quit  that  glory  stuff!  We  ride 
north,"  he  growled. 


Chapter  II 

Jose  Vaca 

^  •  "\HE  young  Mexican's  face  was  beaded  with 
sweat  as  he  rose  and  stared  down  at  the 

_M.  wounded  man.  Clumsily  he  attempted  to 
help  Waring,  who  washed  and  bandaged  the  shat- 
tered shoulder.  Waring  had  shot  to  kill,  but  the  gun 
was  not  his  own,  and  he  had  fired  almost  as  it  had 
touched  his  hand. 

"Get  your  uncle  on  his  horse,"  he  told  the  youth. 
"Don't  make  a  break.  We're  due  at  Juan  Armigo's 
ranchito  about  sundown." 

So  far  as  he  was  concerned,  that  was  all  there  was 
to  it  for  the  time  being.  He  had  wounded  and  cap- 
tured Jose  Vaca,  notorious  in  Sonora  as  leader  in  out- 
lawry. That  there  were  no  others  of  Vaca's  kind  with 
him  puzzled  Waring.  The  young  Ramon,  Vaca's 
nephew,  did  not  count. 

Ramon  helped  his  uncle  to  mount.  They  glanced 
at  each  other,  Vaca's  eyes  blinking.  The  gringo  was 
afoot.  They  were  mounted.  Waring,  observing  their 
attitude,  smiled,  and,  crooking  his  finger,  whistled 
shrilly.  The  young  Ramon  trembled.  Other  gringos 
were  hidden  in  the  arroyo;  perhaps  the  very  man  that 
his  uncle  had  robbed!  Even  now  he  could  hear  the 
click  of  Uoofs  on  the  gravel.  The  gunman  had  been 

9 


Tang  of  Life 

merciful  for  the  moment,  only  to  turn  his  captives 
over  to  the  merciless  men  of  the  mines;  men  who  held 
a  Mexican's  life  worth  no  more  than  a  dog's.  The 
wounded  man,  stiff  in  the  saddle,  turned  his  head. 
Round  a  bend  in  the  dry  river-bed,  his  neck  held  side- 
ways that  the  reins  might  drag  free,  came  Waring's 
big  buckskin  horse,  Dexter.  The  horse  stopped  as  he 
saw  the  group.  Waring  spoke  to  him.  The  big  buck- 
skin stepped  forward  and  nosed  Waring,  who  swung 
to  the  saddle  and  gestured  toward  the  back  trail. 

They  rode  in  silence,  the  Mexicans  with  bowed 
heads,  dull-eyed,  listless,  resigned  to  their  certain 
fate.  For  some  strange  reason  the  gringo  had  not 
killed  them  in  the  arroyo.  He  had  had  excuse  enough. 

Would  he  take  them  to  Sonora  —  to  the  prison? 
Or  would  he  wait  until  they  were  in  some  hidden 
fastness  of  the  Agua  Fria,  and  there  kill  them  and 
leave  them  to  the  coyotes?  The  youth  Ramon  knew 
that  the  two  little  canvas  sacks  of  gold  were  cleverly 
tied  in  the  huge  tapaderas  of  his  uncle's  saddle.  Who 
would  think  to  look  for  them  there? 

The  gringo  had  said  that  they  would  ride  to  the 
ranchito  of  Juan  Armigo.  How  easily  the  gringo  had 
tricked  them  at  the  very  moment  when  they  thought 
they  were  safe!  Yet  he  had  not  asked  about  the 
stolen  money.  The  ways  of  this  gringo  were  past 
comprehension. 

Waring  paid  scant  attention  to  the  Mexicans,  but 
he  glanced  continuously  from  side  to  side  of  the 

10 


Jose  Vaca 

canon,  alert  for  a  surprise.  The  wounded  man,  Vaca, 
was  known  to  him.  He  was  but  one  of  the  bandits. 
Ramon,  Vaca's  nephew,  was  not  of  their  kind,  but 
had  been  led  into  this  journey  by  Vaca  that  the  ban- 
dit might  ride  wide  when  approaching  the  ranches 
and  send  his  nephew  in  for  supplies. 

The  pack  on  Ramon's  saddle  rode  too  lightly  to 
contain  anything  heavier  than  food.  There  was 
nothing  tied  to  Vaca's  saddle  but  a  frayed  and  faded 
blanket.  Yet  Waring  was  certain  that  they  had  not 
cached  the  gold;  that  they  carried  it  with  them. 

At  noon  they  watered  the  horses  midway  up  the 
canon.  As  they  rode  on  again,  Waring  noticed  that 
Vaca  did  not  thrust  his  foot  clear  home  in  the  stirrup, 
but  he  attributed  this  to  the  other's  condition.  The 
Mexican  was  a  sick  man.  His  swarthy  face  had  gone 
yellow,  and  he  leaned  forward,  clutching  the  horn. 
The  heat  was  stagnant,  unwavering.  The  pace  was 
desperately  slow. 

Despite  his  vigilance,  Waring's  mind  grew  heavy 
with  the  monotony.  He  rolled  a  cigarette.  The  smoke 
tasted  bitter.  He  flung  the  cigarette  away.  The 
hunting  of  men  had  lost  its  old-time  thrill.  A  clean 
break  and  a  hard  fight;  that  was  well  enough.  But  the 
bowed  figures  riding  ahead  of  him:  ignorant,  super- 
stitious, brutal;  numb  to  any  sense  of  honor.  Was 
the  game  worth  while?  Yet  they  were  men  —  human 
in  that  they  feared,  hoped,  felt  hunger,  thirst,  pain, 
and  even  dreamed  of  vague  successes  to  be  attained 

11 


Tang  of  Life 

how  or  when  the  Fates  would  decide.  And  was  this 
squalid  victory  a  recompense  for  the  risks  he  ran  and 
the  hardships  he  endured? 

Again  Waring  heard  the  Voice,  as  though  from  a 
distance,  and  yet  the  voice  was  his  own:  "You  will 
turn  back  from  the  hunting  of  men." 

"Like  hell  I  will!"  muttered  Waring. 

Ramon,  who  rode  immediately  ahead  of  him, 
turned  in  the  saddle.  Waring  gestured  to  him  to 
ride  on. 

The  heat  grew  less  intense  as  an  occasional,  va- 
grant breeze  stirred  in  the  brush  and  fluttered  the 
handkerchief  round  Waring's  throat.  Ahead,  the 
canon  broadened  to  the  mesa  lands,  where  the  dis- 
tant green  of  a  line  of  trees  marked  the  boundary  of 
the  Armigo  rancho. 

Presently  Vaca  began  to  sing;  softly  at  first,  then 
with  insane  vehemence  as  the  fever  mounted  to  his 
brain.  Waring  smiled  with  dry  lips.  The  Mexican 
had  stood  the  journey  well.  A  white  man  in  Vaca's 
condition  would  have  gone  to  pieces  hours  ago.  He 
called  to  Ramon,  who  gave  Vaca  water.  The  Mexi- 
can drank  greedily,  and  threw  the  empty  canteen 
into  the  bushes. 

Waring  listened  for  some  hint,  some  crazy  boast 
as  to  the  whereabouts  of  the  stolen  money.  But 
Vaca  rode  on,  occasionally  breaking  into  a  wild  song, 
half  Yaqui,  hah*  Mexican.  The  youth  Ramon  trem- 
bled, fearing  that  the  gringo  would  lose  patience. 


Jose  Vaca 

Across  the  northern  end  of  the  canon  the  winnow- 
ing heat  waves  died  to  the  level  of  the  ground. 
Brown  shadows  shot  from  the  western  wall  and  spread 
across  the  widening  outlet.  The  horses  stepped 
briskly,  knowing  that  they  were  near  water. 

Waring  became  more  alert  as  they  approached  the 
adobe  buildings  of  the  rancho.  Vaca  had  drifted  into 
a  dull  silence.  Gray  with  suffering  and  grim  with 
hate  for  the  gringo,  he  rode  stolidly,  praying  inco- 
herently that  the  gunman  might  be  stricken  dead 
as  he  rode. 

The  raw  edge  of  the  disappearing  sun  leveled  a 
long  flame  of  crimson  across  the  mesa.  The  crimson 
melted  to  gold.  The  gold  paled  to  a  brief  twilight. 
A  faint  star  twinkled  in  the  north. 

Dogs  crowded  forward  in  the  dusk,  challenging 
the  strange  riders.  A  figure  filled  the  lighted  door- 
way of  the  Armigo  ranch-house.  The  dogs  drew 
back. 

Ramon  dismounted  and  helped  his  uncle  down. 
Waring  sat  his  horse  until  Juan  Armigo  stepped 
from  the  doorway  and  asked  who  came.  Waring  an- 
swered with  his  name. 

"Si!  Si!"  exclaimed  Armigo.    "The  senor  is  wel- 


come." 


Waring  dismounted.  "Juan,  I  have  two  of  your 
friends  here;  Jose  Vaca  and  Ramon  Ortego." 

Armigo  seemed  surprised.  "Jose  Vaca  is 
wounded?"  he  queried  hesitatingly. 

13 


Tang  of  Life 

Waring  nodded. 

"And  the  horses;  they  shall  have  feed,  water, 
everything  —  I  myself  - 

"Thanks.  But  I'll  look  after  the  horses,  Juan. 
I'm  taking  Vaca  and  Ramon  to  Sonora.  See  what 
you  can  do  for  Vaca.  He's  pretty  sick." 

"It  shall  be  as  the  senor  says.  And  the  sefior  has 
made  a  fight?" 

"With  those  hombres?  Not  this  journey!  Jose 
Vaca  made  a  mistake;  that's  all." 

Armigo,  perturbed,  shuffled  to  the  house.  Waring 
unsaddled  the  horses  and  turned  them  into  the  cor- 
ral. As  he  lifted  the  saddle  from  Vaca's  horse,  he 
hesitated.  It  was  a  big  stock  saddle  and  heavy;  yet 
it  seemed  too  heavy.  On  his  knees  he  turned  it  over, 
examining  it.  He  smiled  grimly  as  he  untied  the 
little  canvas  sacks  and  drew  them  from  the  tapa- 
deras. 

"Thought  he  showed  too  much  boot  for  a  hard- 
riding  chola,"  muttered  Waring. 

He  rose  and  threw  some  hay  to  the  horses.  He 
could  hear  Ramon  and  Armigo  talking  in  the  ranch- 
house.  Taking  his  empty  canteen  from  his  own  sad- 
dle, he  untied  the  sacks  and  slipped  the  gold-pieces, 
one  by  one,  into  the  canteen.  He  scooped  up  sand 
and  filled  the  canteen  half  full.  The  gold  no  longer 
jingled  as  he  shook  it. 

While  Waring  had  no  fear  that  either  of  the  men 
would  attempt  to  escape,  he  knew  Mexicans  too 

14 


Jose  Vaca 

well  to  trust  Armigo  explicitly.  A  thousand  dollars 
was  a  great  temptation  to  a  poor  rancher.  And  while 
Armigo  had  always  professed  to  be  Waring's  friend, 
sympathy  of  blood  and  the  appeal  of  money  easily 
come  by  might  change  the  placid  face  of  things  con- 
siderably. 

Waring  strode  to  the  house,  washed  and  ate  with 
Juan  in  the  kitchen;  then  he  invited  the  Mexican  out 
to  the  corral. 

"Jose  and  Ramon  are  your  countrymen,  Juan." 

"Si,  senor.  I  am  sorry  for  Ramon.  This  thing 
was  not  of  his  doing.  He  is  but  a  boy  — " 

Waring  touched  the  other's  arm.  "There  will  be 
no  trouble,  Juan.  Only  keep  better  track  of  your 
horses  while  I  ride  this  part  of  the  country." 

"But  — senor— " 

"I've  had  business  with  you  before.  Two  of  your 
cayuses  are  astray  down  the  Agua  Fria.  One  of  them 
is  dragging  a  maguey  lead-rope." 

"Senor,  it  is  impossible!" 

"No,  it  is  n't!  I  know  your  brand.  See  here,  Juan. 
You  knew  that  Vaca  was  trying  to  get  away.  You 
knew  I'd  be  sent  to  get  him.  Why  did  you  let  him 
take  two  spare  horses?" 

"But,  senor,  I  swear  I  did  not!" 

"All  right.  Then  when  Ramon  rode  in  here  two 
days  ago  and  asked  you  for  two  horses,  why  did  n't 
you  refuse  him?  Why  did  you  tell  him  you  would  sell 
them,  but  that  you  would  not  lend  them  to  him?" 

15 


Tang  of  Life 

"If  Ramon  says  that,  he  lies.  I  told  Ramon  — " 

"Thanks.  That's  all  I  want  to  know.  I  don't 
care  what  you  told  Ramon.  You  let  him  take  the 
horses.  Now,  I'm  going  to  tell  you  something  that 
will  be  worth  more  to  you  than  gold.  Don't  try  to 
rope  any  stock  grazing  round  here  to-night.  I  might 
wake  up  quick  and  make  a  mistake.  Men  look  alike 
in  the  moonlight  —  and  we'll  have  a  moon." 

"It  shall  be  as  the  senor  says.   It  is  fate." 

"All  right,  amigo.  But  it  isn't  fate.  It's  makia^ 
fool  mistakes  when  you  or  your  countrymen  tackle 
a  job  like  Vaca  tackled.  Just  get  me  a  couple  of 
blankets.  I'll  sleep  out  here  to-night." 

Juan  Armigo  plodded  to  the  adobe.  The  lamp- 
light showed  his  face  beaded  with  sweat.  He  shuffled 
to  an  inner  room,  and  came  out  with  blankets  on  his 
arm.  Vaca  lay  on  a  bed-roll  in  the  corner  of  the 
larger  room,  and  near  him  stood  Ramon. 

"The  senor  sleeps  with  the  horses,"  said  Armigo 
significantly. 

Ramon  bent  his  head  and  muttered  a  prayer.   - 

"And  if  you  pray,"  said  Armigo,  shifting  the 
blankets  from  one  arm  to  the  other,  "pray  then  that 
the  two  horses  that  you  borrowed  may  return.  As 
for  your  Uncle  Jose,  he  will  not  die." 

"And  we  shall  be  taken  to  the  prison,"  said 
Ramon. 

"You  should  have  killed  the  gringo."  And  Ar- 
migo's  tone  was  matter-of-fact.  "Or  perhaps  told 

16 


Jose  Vaca 

him  where  you  had  hidden  the  gold.  He  might  have 
let  you  go,  then." 

Ramon  shook  his  head.  Armigo's  suggestion  was 
too  obviously  a  question  as  to  the  whereabouts  of 
the  stolen  money. 

The  wounded  man  opened  his  eyes.  "I  have 
heard,"  he  said  faintly.  "Tell  the  gringo  that  I  will 
say  where  the  money  is  hidden  if  he  will  let  me  go." 

"It  shall  be  as  you  wish,"  said  Armigo,  curious 
to  learn  more  of  the  matter. 

At  the  corral  he  delivered  Vaca's  message  to  War- 
ing, who  feigned  delight  at  the  other's  information. 

"If  that  is  so,  Tio  Juan,"  he  laughed,  "you  shall 
have  your  share  —  a  hundred  pesos.  Leave  the 
blankets  there  by  my  saddle.  We  will  go  to  the 
house." 

From  the  coolness  of  night,  with  its  dim  radiance 
of  stars,  to  the  accumulated  heat  of  the  interior  of 
the  adobe  was  an  unpleasant  change.  The  walls  were 
whitewashed  and  clean  enough,  but  the  place  smelled 
strongly  of  cooking.  A  lamp  burned  on  the  oilcloth- 
covered  table.  Ramon,  wide-eyed  with  trepidation, 
stood  by  his  uncle,  who  had  braced  himself  on  his 
elbow  as  Waring  approached.  Waring  nodded 
pleasantly  and  rolled  a  cigarette.  Jose  Vaca  glared 
up  at  him  hungrily.  The  lower  lip,  pendulous, 
showed  his  broken  teeth.  Waring  thought  of  a 
trapped  wolf.  Juan  glanced  from  one  to  the  other. 

But  the  gringo  seemed  incurious,  merely  gazing 

17 


Tang  of  Life 

at  the  pictures  on  the  walls;  a  flaming  print  of  the 
Madonna,  one  of  the  Christ,  a  cheap  photograph  of 
Juan  and  his  senora  taken  on  their  wedding  day,  an 
abalone  shell  on  which  was  painted  something  re- 
sembling a  horse  and  rider  — 

"The  gold  is  hidden  in  the  house  of  Pedro  Salazar, 
of  Sonora.  It  is  buried  in  the  earth  beneath  his  bed." 

Jose  Vaca  had  spoken,  but  Waring  was  watching 
Ramon's  eyes. 

"All  right,  hombre.  Muchas  gracias." 

"And  now  you  will  let  me  go?"  queried  Vaca. 

"I  have  n't  said  so."  Waring's  tone  was  pleasant, 
almost  indifferent. 

Ramon's  face  was  troubled.  Of  what  use  was  it 
to  try  and  deceive  the  gringo?  But  Waring  was 
smiling.  Did  he,  then,  believe  such  an  obvious  lie? 

"Bueno!"  Waring  exclaimed.  "That  lets  you  out. 
Now,  what  about  you,  Ramon?" 

"My  uncle  has  spoken,"  said  Ramon.  "I  have 
nothing  to  say." 

"Then  you  will  ride  with  me  to  Sonora." 

"As  you  say,  senor." 

"All  right.  Don't  sit  up  all  night  praying.  That 
won't  do  any  good.  Get  some  sleep.  And  you,  too, 
Juan."  And  Waring  turned  quickly  to  Armigo. 
"  Sleep  all  you  can.  You  '11  feel  better  in  the  morning." 

Waring  turned  and  strode  out.  In  the  corral  he 
spread  his  blankets.  With  his  head  on  the  saddle, 
he  lay  gazing  up  at  the  stars. 

18 


Jose  Vaca 

The  horses,  with  the  exception  of  Waring's  buck- 
skin Dex,  huddled  in  one  corner  of  the  corral.  That 
strange  shape  stretched  quietly  on  the  ground  was 
new  to  them. 

For  a  long  time  the  horse  Dex  stood  with  head 
lowered  and  one  hip  sagged  as  he  rested.  Just  before 
Waring  slept  he  felt  a  gentle  nosing  of  his  blankets. 
The  big  horse  sniffed  curiously. 

"Strange  blankets,  eh?"  queried  Waring  drows- 
ily. "But  it's  the  same  old  partner,  Dex." 

The  horse  walked  slowly  away,  nosing  along  the 
fence.  Waring  knew  that  he  was  well  sentineled. 
The  big  buckskin  would  resent  the  approach  of  a 
stranger  by  snorting.  Waring  turned  on  his  side  and 
slept.  His  day's  work  was  done. 


Chapter  III 

Donovan's  Hand 

WARING  was  up  with  the  first  faint  streak 
of  dawn.  He  threw  hay  to  the  horses 
and  strode  briskly  to  the  adobe.  Juan 
Armigo  was  bending  over  the  kitchen  stove.  War- 
ing nodded  to  him  and  stepped  to  the  next  room. 
The  Mexicans  were  asleep;  young  Ramon  lying  face 
down  beneath  the  crucifix  on  the  wall,  where  he  had 
knelt  in  prayer  most  of  the  night. 

Waring  drew  back  quietly. 

"Let  them  sleep,"  he  told  Juan  in  the  kitchen. 

After  frijoles  and  coffee,  the  gunman  rose  and 
gestured  to  Juan  to  follow  him. 

Out  near  the  corral,  Waring  turned  suddenly. 
"You  say  that  young  Ramon  is  straight?" 

"Si,  senor.  He  is  a  good  boy."  . 

"Well,  he's  in  dam'  bad  company.  How  about 
Vaca?" 

Juan  Armigo  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Are  you  afraid  of  him,  Juan?" 

"No.  But  if  he  were  to  ask  me  for  anything,  it 
would  be  well  to  let  him  have  it." 

"I  see.  So  he  sent  young  Ramon  in  here  for  two 
extra  horses,  and  you  were  afraid  to  refuse.  I  had 
thought  you  were  an  honest  man.  After  I  have  gone, 

to 


Donovan's  Hand 

go  hunt  up  those  horses  in  the  cafion.  And  if  any 
one  from  Sonora  rides  in  here  and  asks  about  Ramon 
or  Vaca  or  me,  you  don't  know  anything  about  us. 
Sabe?  If  your  horses  are  found  before  you  get  to  them, 
some  one  stole  them.  Do  these  things.  I  don't  want 
to  come  back  to  see  if  you  have  done  them." 

Juan  Armigo  nodded,  gazing  at  Waring  with 
crafty  eyes.  So  the  gringo  was  tempted  by  the  gold. 
He  would  ride  back  to  Sonora,  find  the  stolen  money 
in  the  house  of  Pedro  Salazar,  and  keep  it.  It  would 
be  a  very  simple  thing  to  do.  Young  Ramon  would 
be  afraid  to  speak  and  Jose  Vaca  would  have  dis- 
appeared. The  gringo  could  swear  that  he  had  not 
found  the  bandits  or  the  gold.  So  reasoned  Juan,  his 
erstwhile  respect  for  the  gunman  wavering  as  the 
idea  became  fixed.  He  grinned  at  Waring.  It  would 
be  a  good  trick;  to  steal  the  gold  from  the  stealers. 
Of  a  certainty  the  gringo  was  becoming  almost  as 
subtle  as  a  Mexican. 

Waring  was  not  pleased  as  he  read  the  other's 
eyes,  but  he  said  nothing.  Turning  abruptly,  he 
entered  the  corral  and  saddled  Ramon's  horse  and 
his  own. 

"Get  Jose  Vaca  out  of  here  as  soon  as  he  can 
travel,"  he  told  Armigo.  "You  may  have  to  explain 
if  he  is  found  here."  And  Waring  strode  to  the  adobe. 

Ramon  was  awake  and  talking  with  his  uncle. 
Waring  told  him  to  get  something  to  eat.  Then  he 
xurned  to  Vaca. 

21 


Tang  of  Life 

"Jose,"  he  began  pleasantly,  "you  tried  to  get  me 
yesterday,  but  you  only  spoiled  a  good  Stetson.  See? 
You  shot  high.  When  you  go  for  a  man  again,  start 
in  at  his  belt-buckle  and  get  him  low.  We'll  let  that 
go  this  time.  When  you  can  ride,  take  your  cayuse 
and  fan  it  anywhere  —  but  don't  ride  back  to  Sonora. 
I'll  be  there.  I'm  going  to  herd  young  Ramon  back 
home.  He  is  n't  your  kind.  You  are  free.  Don't  jab- 
ber. Just  tell  all  that  to  your  saints.  And  if  you  get 
caught,  don't  say  that  you  saw  me.  Sabe?" 

The  wounded  man  raised  himself  on  his  elbow, 
glaring  up  at  Waring  with  feverish  eyes.  "You  give 
me  my  life.  I  shall  not  speak." 

"Bueno!  And  you  said  in  the  house  of  Pedro  Sal- 
azar?" 

"Si!  Near  the  acequia." 

"  The  Placeta  Burro.  I  know  the  place.  You '11  find 
your  horse  and  a  saddle  when  you  are  able  to  ride." 

The  bandit's  eyes  glistened  as  he  watched  Waring 
depart.  If  the  gringo  entered  the  house  of  Pedro 
Salazar,  he  would  not  find  the  gold  and  he  would  not 
come  out  alive.  The  gringo  gunman  had  killed  the 
brother  of  Pedro  Salazar  down  in  the  desert  country 
years  ago.  And  Salazar  had  had  nothing  to  do  with 
the  Ortez  Mine  robbery.  Vaca  thought  that  the  gold 
was  still  safe  in  his  tapaderas.  The  gringo  was  a  fool. 

Waring  led  the  two  saddled  horses  to  the  house, 
Ramon,  coming  from  the  kitchen,  blinked  in  the  sun- 
light. 


Donovan's  Hand 

"It  is  my  horse,  but  not  my  saddle,  senor." 

"You  are  an  honest  man,"  laughed  Waring.  "But 
we  won't  change  saddles.  Come  on!" 

Ramon  mounted  and  rode  beside  Waring  until  they 
were  out  of  sight  of  the  ranch-house,  when  Waring 
reined  up. 

"Where  is  that  money?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

"I  do  not  know,  senor." 

"Did  you  know  where  it  was  yesterday?" 

Ramon  hesitated.  Was  this  a  trap?  Waring's  level 
gaze  held  the  young  Mexican  to  a  straight  answer. 

"Si,  senor.  I  knew  —  yesterday." 

"You  knew;  but  you  did  n't  talk  up  when  your 
uncle  tried  to  run  me  into  Pedro  Salazar." 

"I  —  he  is  of  my  family." 

"Well,  I  don't  blame  you.  I  see  that  you  can  keep 
from  talking  when  you  have  to.  And  now  is  your 
chance  to  do  a  lot  of  keeping  still.  I'm  going  to  ride 
into  Sonora  ahead  of  you.  When  you  get  in,  go  home 
and  forget  that  you  made  this  journey.  If  your  folks 
ask  where  your  uncle  is,  tell  them  that  he  rode  south 
and  that  you  turned  back.  Because  you  did  n't  lie  to 
me,  and  because  you  did  n't  show  yellow,  I  'm  going 
to  give  you  a  chance  to  get  out  of  this.  I  let  your 
uncle  go  because  he  would  have  given  you  away  to 
save  himself  the  minute  I  jailed  him  in  Sonora.  It's 
up  to  you  to  keep  out  of  trouble.  You've  had  a  scare 
that  ought  to  last  you.  Take  your  time  and  hit 
Sonora  about  sundown.  Adios." 

23 


Tang  of  Life 

"But  —  senor!" 

Waring  whirled  his  horse.  "A  good  rider  shoves  his 
foot  clear  home,"  he  called  as  he  loped  away. 

Ramon  sat  his  horse,  gazing  at  the  little  puffs  of 
dust  that  shot  from  the  hoofs  of  the  big  buckskin. 
Surely  the  gringo  was  mad!  Yet  he  was  a  man  of  big 
heart.  Perplexed,  stunned  by  the  realization  that  he 
was  alone  and  free,  the  young  Mexican  gazed  about 
him.  Waring  was  a  tiny  figure  in  the  distance. 
Ramon  dismounted  and  examined  the  empty  tapa- 
deras. 

Heretofore  he  had  considered  subtlety,  trickery, 
qualities  to  be  desired,  and  not  incompatible  with 
honor.  In  a  flash  he  realized  the  difference,  the  dis- 
tinction between  trickery  and  keenness  of  mind.  He 
had  been  awed  by  his  uncle's  reputation  and  proud  to 
name  him  of  this  family.  Now  he  saw  him  for  what 
he  was.  "My  Uncle  Jose  is  a  bad  man,"  he  said  to 
himself.  "The  other,  —  the  gringo  whom  men  call 
'The  Killer,'  —  he  is  a  hard  man,  but  assuredly  he  is 
not  bad." 

When  Ramon  spoke  to  his  horse  his  voice  trembled. 
His  hand  drifted  up  to  the  little  silver  crucifix  on  his 
breast.  A  vague  glimmer  of  understanding,  a  sense 
of  the  real  significance  of  the  emblem  heartened  him 
to  face  the  journey  homeward  and  the  questions  of 
his  kin.  And,  above  all,  he  felt  an  admiration  for  the 
gringo  that  grew  by  degrees  as  he  rode  on.  He  could 
follow  such  a  man  to  the  end  of  the  world,  even  across 

24 


Donovan's  Hand 

the  border  of  the  Great  Unknown,  for  surely  such  a 
leader  would  not  lose  the  way. 

Three  men  sat  in  the  office  of  the  Ortez  Mines, 
smoking  and  saying  little.  Donovan,  the  manager; 
the  paymaster,  Quigley;  and  the  assistant  manager, 
a  young  American  fresh  from  the  East.  Waring's 
name  was  mentioned.  Three  days  ago  he  had  ridden 
south  after  the  bandits.  He  might  return.  He  might 
not. 

"I'd  like  to  see  him  ride  in,"  said  Donovan,  turn- 
ing to  the  paymaster. 

"And  you  hate  him  at  that,"  said  Quigley. 

"I  don't  say  so.  But  if  he  was  paymaster  here, 
he'd  put  the  fear  of  God  into  some  of  those  greasers." 

Quigley  flushed.  "You  didn't  hire  me  to  chase 
greasers,  Donovan.  I  'm  no  gunman." 

"No,"  said  Donovan  slowly.  "I  had  you  sized 
up." 

"Oh,  cut  out  that  stuff!"  said  the  assistant  man- 
ager, smiling.  "That  won't  balance  the  pay-roll." 

"No.  But  I'm  going  to  cut  down  expenses."  And 
Donovan  eyed  Quigley.  "Jim  Waring  is  too  dam' 
high  and  mighty  to  suit  me.  Every  time  he  tackles  a 
job  he  is  the  big  boss  till  it 's  done.  If  he  comes  back, 
all  right.  If  he  don't  —  we'll  charge  it  up  to  profit 
and  loss.  But  his  name  goes  off  the  pay-roll  to-day." 

Quigley  grinned.  He  knew  that  Donovan  was 
afraid  of  Waring.  Waring  was  the  one  man  in  Dono- 

25 


Tang  of  Life 

van's  employ  that  he  could  not  bully.  Moreover,  the 
big  Irishman  hated  to  pay  Waring's  price,  which  was 
stiff. 

"How  about  a  raise  of  twenty-five  a  month,  then? " 
queried  Quigley. 

To  his  surprise,  Donovan  nodded  genially.  "  You  're 
on,  Jack.  And  that  goes  the  minute  Waring  shows  up 
with  the  money.  If  he  does  n't  show  up  —  why,  that 
raise  can  wait." 

"Then  I'll  just  date  the  change  to-day,"  said 
Quigley.  "Take  a  logk  down  the  street." 

Donovan  rose  heavily  and  stepped  to  the  window. 
"By  God,  it's  Waring,  all  right!  He's  afoot.  What's 
that  he's  packing?" 

"A  canteen,"  said  the  assistant  manager.  "This 
is  a  dry  country." 

Donovan  returned  to  his  desk.  "Get  busy,  at 
something.  We  don't  want  to  sit  here  like  a  lot  of 
stuffed  buzzards.  We're  glad  to  see  Waring  back,  of 
course.  You  two  can  drift  out  when  I  get  to  talking 
business  with  him." 

Quigley  nodded  and  took  up  his  pen.  The  assistant 
manager  studied  a  map. 

Waring  strode  in  briskly.  The  paymaster  glanced 
up  and  nodded,  expecting  Donovan  to  speak.  But 
Donovan  sat  with  his  back  toward  Waring,  his  head 
wreathed  in  tobacco  smoke.  He  was  apparently  ab- 
sorbed in  a  letter. 

The  gunman  paused  halfway  across  the  office. 


Donovan's  Hand 

Quigley  fidgeted.  The  assistant  superintendent  stole 
a  glance  at  Donovan's  broad  back  and  smiled.  All 
three  seemed  waiting  for  Waring  to  speak.  Quigley 
rather  enjoyed  the  situation.  The  assistant  superin- 
tendent's scalp  prickled  with  restrained  excitement. 

He  rose  and  stepped  to  Donovan.  "Mr.  Donovan, 
Mr.  Waring  is  here." 

"Thanks,"  said  Waring,  nodding  to  the  assistant. 

Donovan  heaved  himself  round.  "Why,  hello, 
Jim!  I  did  n't  hear  you  come  in." 

Waring's  cool  gray  eyes  held  Donovan  with  a 
mildly  contemptuous  gaze.  Still  the  gunman  did  not 
speak. 

"Did  you  land  'em?"  queried  Donovan. 

Waring  shook  his  head. 

"Hell!"  exclaimed  Donovan.  "Then,  what's  the 
answer?" 

"Bill,  you  can't  bluff  worth  a  damn!" 

Quigley  laughed.  The  assistant  mopped  his  face 
with  an  immaculate  handkerchief.  The  room  was 
hot. 

"Bill,"  and  Waring's  voice  was  softly  insulting, 
"you  can't  bluff  worth  a  damn." 

Donovan's  red  face  grew  redder.  "What  are  you 
driving  at,  anyway?" 

Quigley  stirred  and  rose.  The  assistant  got  to 
his  feet. 

"Just  a  minute,"  said  Waring,  gesturing  to  them 
to  sit  down.  "Donovan's  got  something  on  his  mind. 

27 


Tang  of  Life 

I  knew  it  the  minute  I  came  in.  I  want  you  fellows  to 
hear  it." 

Donovan  flung  his  half -smoked  cigar  to  the  floor 
and  lighted  a  fresh  one.  Waring's  attitude  irritated 
him.  Officially,  Donovan  was  Waring's  superior. 
Man  to  man,  the  Sonora  gunman  was  Donovan's 
master,  and  the  Irishman  knew  and  resented  it. 

He  tried  a  new  tack.  "Glad  to  see  you  back,  Jim." 
And  he  rose  and  stuck  out  a  sweating  hand. 

Waring  swung  the  canteen  from  his  shoulder  and 
carefully  hung  the  strap  over  Donovan's  wrist. 
"There's  your  money,  Bill.  Count  it  —  and  give  me 
a  receipt." 

Donovan,  with  the  dusty  canteen  dangling  from 
his  arm,  looked  exceedingly  foolish. 

Waring  turned  to  Quigley.  "Bill's  got  a  stroke," 
he  said,  smiling.  "Quigley,  give  me  a  receipt  for  a 
thousand  dollars." 

"Sure!"  said  Quigley,  relieved.  The  money  had 
been  stolen  from  him. 

Waring  pulled  up  a  chair  and  leaned  his  elbows  on 
the  table.  Quigley  unscrewed  the  cap  of  the  canteen. 
A  stream  of  sand  shot  across  a  map.  The  assistant 
started  to  his  feet.  Quigley  shook  the  canteen  and 
poured  out  a  softly  clinking  pile  of  gold-pieces.  One 
by  one  he  sorted  them  from  the  sand  and  counted 
them. 

"One  thousand  even.  Where *d  you  overtake  Vaca 
and  his  outfit?" 

28 


Donovan's  Hand 

"Did  I?"  queried  Waring. 

"Well,  you  got  the  mazuma,"  said  Quigley.  "And 
that's  good  enough  for  me." 

Donovan  stepped  to  the  table.  "Williams,  I  won't 
need  you  any  more  to-day." 

The  assistant  rose  and  left  the  office.  Donovan 
pulled  up  a  chair.  "Never  mind  about  that  receipt, 
Quigley.  You  can  witness  that  Waring  returned  the 
money.  Jim,  here,  is  not  so  dam'  particular." 

"No,  or  I  would  n't  be  on  your  pay-roll,"  said 
Waring. 

Donovan  laughed.  "Let's  get  down  to  bed-rock, 
Jim.  I'm  paying  you  your  own  price  for  this  work. 
The  Eastern  office  thinks  I  pay  too  high.  I  got  a  let- 
ter yesterday  telling  me  to  cut  down  expenses.  This 
last  holdup  will  make  them  sore.  Here's  the  proposi- 
tion. I'll  keep  you  on  the  pay-roll  and  charge  this 
thousand  up  to  profit  and  loss.  Nobody  knows  you 
recovered  this  money  except  Williams,  and  he'll  keep 
still.  Quigley  and  you  and  I  will  split  it  —  three  hun- 
dred apiece." 

"Suppose  I  stay  out  of  the  deal,"  said  Waring. 

"Why,  that's  all  right.  I  guess  we  can  get  along." 

Quigley  glanced  quickly  at  Waring.  Donovan's 
proposal  was  an  insult  intended  to  provoke  a  quarrel 
that  would  lead  to  Waring's  dismissal  from  the  serv- 
ice of  the  Ortez  Mines.  Or  if  Waring  were  to  agree  to 
the  suggestion,  Donovan  would  have  pulled  Waring 
down  to  his  own  level. 

29 


Tang  of  Life 

Waring  slowly  rolled  a  cigarette.  "Make  out  my 
check,"  he  said,  turning  to  Quigley. 

Donovan  sighed.  Waring  was  going  to  quit.  That 
was  good.  It  had  been  easy  enough. 

Quigley  drafted  a  check  and  handed  it  to  Donovan 
to  sign.  As  the  paymaster  began  to  gather  up  the 
money  on  the  table,  Waring  pocketed  the  check  and 
rose,  watching  Quigley's  nervous  hands. 

As  Quigley  tied  the  sack  and  picked  it  up,  War- 
ing reached  out  his  arm.  "Give  it  to  me,"  he  said 
quietly.  Quigley  laughed.  Waring's  eyes  were  un- 
readable. 

The  smile  faded  from  Quigley's  face.  Without 
knowing  just  why  he  did  it,  he  relinquished  the  sack. 

Waring  turned  to  Donovan.  "I'll  take  care  of  this, 
Bill.  As  I  told  you  before,  you  can't  bluff  worth  a 
damn." 

Waring  strode  to  the  door.  At  Quigley's  choked 
exclamation  of  protest,  the  gunman  whirled  round. 
Donovan  stood  by  the  desk,  a  gun  weaving  in  his 
hand. 

"You  ought  to  know  better  than  to  pull  a  gun  on 
me,"  said  Waring.    "Never  throw  down  on  a  man 
unless  you  mean  business,  Bill." 
.   The  door  clicked  shut. 

Donovan  stood  gazing  stupidly  at  Quigley.  "By 
cripes!"  he  flamed  suddenly.  "I'll  put  Jim  Waring 
where  he  belongs.  He  can't  run  a  whizzer  like  that 


on  me!" 


30 


Donovan's  Hand 

"I'd  go  slow,"  said  Quigley.  "You  don't  know 
what  kind  of  a  game  Waring  will  play." 

Donovan  grabbed  the  telephone  and  called  up  the 
Sonora  police. 


Chapter  IV 

The  Silver  Crucifix 

WHEN  in  Sonora,  Waring  frequented  the 
Plaza  Hotel.  He  had  arranged  with  the 
management  that  his  room  should  always 
be  ready  for  him,  day  or  night.  The  location  was  ad- 
vantageous. Nearly  all  the  Americans  visiting  Sonora 
and  many  resident  Americans  stopped  at  the  Plaza. 
Waring  frequently  picked  up  valuable  bits  of  news  as 
he  lounged  in  the  lobby.  Quietly  garbed  when  in 
town,  he  passed  for  a  well-to-do  rancher  or  mining 
man.  His  manner  invited  no  confidences.  He  was  left 
much  to  himself.  Men  who  knew  him  deemed  him 
unaccountable  in  that  he  never  drank  with  them  and 
seldom  spoke  unless  spoken  to.  The  employees  of  the 
hotel  had  grown  accustomed  to  his  comings  and  go- 
ings, though  they  seldom  knew  where  he  went  or  defi- 
nitely when  he  would  return.  His  mildness  of  man- 
ner was  a  source  of  comment  among  those  who  knew 
him  for  what  he  was.  And  his  very  mildness  of  manner 
was  one  of  his  greatest  assets  in  gaining  information. 
Essentially  a  man  of  action,  silent  as  to  his  plans  and 
surmises,  yet  he  could  talk  well  when  occasion  de- 
manded. 

It  was  rumored  that  he  was  in  the  employ  of  the 
American  Government;  that  he  had  been  disappointed 

32 


The  Silver  Crucifix 

In  a  love  affair;  that  he  had  a  wife  and  son  living  some- 
where in  the  States;  that  for  very  good  reasons  he 
could  not  return  to  the  States;  that  he  was  a  danger- 
ous man,  well  paid  by  the  Mexican  Government  to 
handle  political  matters  that  would  not  bear  public 
inspection.  These  rumors  came  to  him  from  time  to 
time,  and  because  he  paid  no  attention  to  them  they 
were  accepted  as  facts. 

About  an  hour  after  he  had  left  Donovan's  office, 
Waring  entered  the  Plaza  Hotel,  nodded  to  the  clerk, 
and  passed  on  down  the  hallway.  He  knocked  at  a 
door,  and  was  answered  by  the  appearance  of  a  stout, 
smooth-shaven  man  in  shirt-sleeves.  They  chatted 
for  a  minute  or  two.  Waring  stepped  into  the  room. 
Presently  he  reappeared,  smiling. 

After  dinner  he  strolled  out  and  down  the  street. 
At  a  corner  he  edged  through  the  crowd,  and  was  strid- 
ing on  when  some  one  touched  his  arm.  He  turned 
to  confront  the  Mexican  youth,  Ramon.  Waring 
gestured  to  Ramon  to  follow,  and  they  passed  on 
down  the  street  until  near  the  edge  of  the  town.  In 
the  shadow  of  an  adobe,  Waring  stopped. 

Ramon  glanced  up  and  down  the  street.  "The 
police  —  they  have  asked  me  where  is  my  Uncle  Jose. 
I  have  told  them  that  I  do  not  know.  The  police  they 
asked  me  that." 

"Well?" 

"But  it  is  not  that  why  I  come.  They  told  me  to  go 
to  my  home.  It  was  when  I  was  in  the  prison  that  the 

33 


Tang  of  Life 

policia  talked  in  the  telephone.  He  spoke  your  name 
and  the  name  of  Senor  Bill  Donovan  of  the  Ortez 
Mine.  I  heard  only  your  name  and  Ijis,  but  I  was 
afraid.  You  will  not  tell  them  that  I  was  with  my 
Uncle  Jose?" 

"No.  And  thanks,  Ramon.  I  think  I  know  what 
they  were  talking  about.  Go  back  home,  pronto.  If 
you  were  to  be  seen  with  me  — " 

"Thesenor  is  gracious.  He  has  given  me  my  life. 
I  have  nothing  to  give  —  but  this."  And  Ramon 
drew  the  little  silver  crucifix  from  his  shirt  and 
pressed  it  in  Waring's  hand. 

"Oh,  here,  muchacho — " 

But  Ramon  was  already  hastening  down  a  side 
street.  Waring  smiled  and  shook  his  head.  For  a 
moment  he  stood  looking  at  the  little  crucifix  shining 
on  the  palm  of  his  hand.  He  slipped  it  into  his  pocket 
and  strode  back  up  the  street.  For  an  hour  or  more  he 
walked  about,  listening  casually  to  this  or  that  bit  of 
conversation.  Occasionally  he  heard  Mexicans  dis- 
cussing the  Ortez  robbery.  Donovan's  name,  War- 
ing's  own  name,  Vaca's,  and  even  Ramon's  were 
mentioned.  It  seemed  strange  to  him  that  news 
should  breed  so  fast.  Few  knew  that  he  had  returned. 
Possibly  Donovan  had  spread  the  report  that  the 
bandits  had  made  their  escape  with  the  money.  That 
would  mean  that  Waring  had  been  outwitted.  And 
Donovan  would  like  nothing  better  than  to  injure 
Waring's  reputation. 

34 


The  Silver  Crucifix 

Finding  himself  opposite  the  hotel,  Waring  glanced 
about  and  strode  in.  As  he  entered  the  hallway  lead- 
ing to  his  room  three  men  rose  from  the  leather  chairs 
near  the  lobby  window  and  followed  him.  Waring's 
door  closed.  He  undressed  and  went  to  bed.  He  had 
been  asleep  but  a  few  minutes  when  some  one  rapped 
on  the  door.  He  asked  who  it  was.  He  was  told  to 
open  in  the  name  of  the  city  of  Sonora.  He  rose  and 
dressed  quickly. 

When  he  opened  the  door  two  Sonora  policemen 
told  him  to  put  up  his  hands.  Donovan  stood  back  of 
them,  chewing  a  cigar.  One  of  the  policemen  took 
Waring's  gun.  The  other  searched  the  room.  Evi- 
dently he  did  not  find  what  he  sought. 

"When  you  get  through,"  said  Waring,  eyeing 
Donovan  grimly,  "you  might  tell  me  what  you're 
after." 

"I'm  after  that  thousand,"  said  Donovan. 

"Oh!  Well,  why  didn't  you  say  so?  Just  call  in 
Stanley,  of  the  bank.  His  room  is  opposite." 

Donovan  hesitated.  "Stanley's  got  nothing  to  do 
with  this." 

"Has  n't  he?"  queried  Waring.   "Call  him  in  and 


see." 


One  of  the  police  knocked  at  Stanley's  door. 

The  bank  cashier  appeared,  rubbing  his  eyes. 
"Hello,  Bill!  Hello,  Jim!  What's  the  fuss?" 

"Stanley,  did  I  deposit  a  thousand  dollars  in  gold 
tc  the  credit  of  the  Ortez  Mine  this  afternoon?" 

35 


Tang  of  Life 

"You  did." 

"Just  show  Donovan  here  the  receipt  I  asked  you 
to  keep  for  me." 

"All  right.  I '11  get  it." 

Donovan  glanced  at  the  receipt.  "Pretty  smooth," 
he  muttered. 

Waring  smiled.  His  silence  enraged  Donovan,  who 
motioned  to  the  police  to  leave  the  room. 

Waring  interrupted.  "My  gun?"  he  queried 
mildly. 

One  of  the  police  handed  the  gun  to  Waring. 

Their  eyes  met.  "Why,  hello,  Pedro!"  And  War- 
ing's  voice  expressed  innocent  surprise.  "When  did 
you  enroll  as  a  policeman?" 

Donovan  was  about  to  interrupt  when  the  police- 
man spoke:  "That  is  my  business." 

"Which  means  Bill  here  has  had  you  sworn  in 
to-day.  Knew  you  would  like  to  get  a  crack  at  me, 
eh?  You  ought  to  know  better,  Salazar." 

"Come  on!"  called  Donovan. 

The  Mexicans  followed  him  down  the  hallway. 

Waring  thanked  Stanley.  "It  was  a  frame-up  to 
get  me,  Frank,"  he  concluded.  "Pedro  Salazar 
would  like  the  chance,  and  as  a  policeman  he  could 
work  it.  You  know  that  old  game  —  resisting  arrest." 

"Does  n't  seem  to  worry  you,"  said  Stanley. 

"No.  I'm  leaving  town.  I'm  through  with  this 
game." 

"Getting  too  hot?" 


The  Silver  Crucifix 

"No.  I'm  getting  cold  feet,"  said  Waring,  laugh- 
ing. "And  say,  Stanley,  I  may  need  a  little  money 
to-morrow." 

"Any  time,  Jim." 

Waring  nodded.  Back  in  his  room  he  sat  for  a 
while  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  gazing  at  the  curtained 
window.  Life  had  gone  stale.  He  was  sick  of  hunt- 
ing men  and  of  being  hunted.  Pedro  Salazar  was 
now  a  member  of  the  Sonora  police  through  Dono- 
van's efforts.  Eventually  Salazar  would  find  an 
excuse  to  shoot  Waring.  And  the  gunman  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  do  no  more  killing.  For  that  reason 
he  had  spared  Vaca  and  had  befriended  Ramon.  He 
decided  to  leave  Sonora. 

Presently  he  rose  and  dressed  in  his  desert  clothes. 
As  he  went  through  his  pockets  he  came  upon  the 
little  silver  crucifix  and  transferred  it,  with  some 
loose  change,  to  his  riding-breeches.  He  turned 
out  the  light,  locked  the  room  from  the  outside,  and 
strode  out  of  the  hotel. 

At  the  livery-stable,  he  asked  for  his  horse.  The 
man  in  charge  told  him  that  Dex  had  been  taken  by 
the  police.  That  the  Senor  Bill  Donovan  and  Pedro 
Salazar  had  come  and  shown  him  a  paper,  —  he  could 
not  read,  —  but  he  knew  the  big  seal.  It  was  Pedro 
Salazar  who  had  ridden  the  horse. 

The  streets  were  still  lighted,  although  the  crowd 
was  thinning.  Waring  turned  a  corner  and  drifted 
through  the  shadows  toward  the  edge  of  town.  As 

37 


Tang  of  Life 

he  passed  open  doorways  he  was  greeted  in  Mexican, 
and  returned  each  greeting  pleasantly.  The  adobe 
at  the  end  of  the  side  street  he  was  on  was  dark. 

Waring  paused.  Pedro  Salazar's  house  was  the 
only  unlighted  house  in  the  district.  The  circum* 
stance  hinted  of  an  ambushment.  Waring  crossed 
to  the  deeper  shadows  and  whistled.  The  call  was 
peculiarly  low  and  cajoling.  He  was  answered  by  a 
muffled  nickering.  His  horse  Dex  was  evidently 
corralled  at  the  back  of  the  adobe. 

Pedro  Salazar  knew  that  Waring  would  come  for 
the  horse  sooner  or  later,  so  he  waited,  crouching 
behind  the  adobe  wall  of  the  enclosure. 

Waring  knocked  loudly  on  Salazar's  door  and 
called  his  name.  Then  he  turned  and  ran  to  the 
corner,  dodged  round  it,  and  crept  along  the  breast- 
high  adobe  wall.  He  whistled  again.  A  rope  snapped, 
and  there  came  the  sound  of  quick  trampling.  A 
rush  and  the  great,  tawny  shape  of  Dexter  reared 
in  the  moonlight  and  swept  over  the  wall.  With 
head  up,  the  horse  snorted  a  challenge.  Waring 
called  softly.  The  horse  wheeled  toward  him.  War- 
ing caught  the  broken  neck-rope  and  swung  up.  A 
flash  cut  the  darkness  behind  him.  Instinctively  he 
turned  and  threw  two  shots.  A  figure  crumpled  to  a 
dim  blur  in  the  corral. 

Waring  raced  down  the  alley  and  out  into  the 
street.  At  the  livery-stable  he  asked  for  his  saddle 
and  bridle.  The  Mexican,  chattering,  brought  them. 

38 


The  Silver  Crucifix 

Waring  tugged  the  cinchas  tight  and  mounted.  Far 
down  the  street  some  one  called. 

Waring  rode  to  the  hotel,  dismounted,  and  strode 
in  casually,  pausing  at  Stanley's  door.  The  cashier 
answered  his  knock. 

"I'm  off,"  said  Waring.  "And  I'll  need  some 
money." 

"All  right,  Jim.  What's  up?  How  much?" 

"A  couple  of  hundred.  Charge  it  back  to  my 
account.  Got  it?" 

"No.  I'll  get  it  at  the  desk." 

"All  right.  Settle  my  bill  for  me  to-morrow.  Don't 
stop  to  dress.  Rustle!" 

A  belated  lounger  glanced  up  in  surprise  as  War- 
ing, booted  and  spurred,  entered  the  lobby  with  a 
man  in  pajamas.  They  talked  with  the  clerk  a  mo- 
ment, shook  hands,  and  Waring  strode  to  the  door- 
way. 

"Any  word  for  the  Ortez  people?"  queried  Stan- 
ley as  Waring  mounted. 

"  I  left  a  little  notice  for  Donovan  —  at  Pedro 
Salazar's  house,"  said  Waring.  "Donovan  will 
understand."  And  Waring  was  gone. 

The  lounger  accosted  Stanley.  "What's  the  row, 
Stanley?" 

"I  don't  know.  Jim  Waring  is  in  a  hurry  —  first 
time  since  I've  known  him.  Figure  it  out  yourself." 

Back  in  Pedro  Salazar's  corral  a  man  lay  huddled 
in  a  dim  corner,  his  sightless  eyes  open  to  the  soft 

39 


Tang  of  Life 

radiance  of  the  Sonora  moon.  A  group  of  Mexicans 
stood  about,  jabbering.  Among  them  was  Ramon 
Ortego.  Ramon  listened  and  said  nothing.  Pedro 
Salazar  was  dead.  No  one  knew  who  had  killed  him. 
\nd  only  that  day  he  had  become  one  of  the  police! 
It  would  go  hard  with  the  man  who  did  this  thing. 
There  were  many  surmises.  Pedro's  brother  had 
been  killed  by  the  gringo  Waring  down  in  the  desert. 
As  for  Pedro,  his  name  had  been  none  too  good.  They 
shrugged  their  shoulders  and  crossed  themselves. 

Ramon  slipped  from  the  group  and  climbed  the 
adobe  wall.  As  he  straightened  up  on  the  other  side, 
he  saw  something  gleaming  in  the  moonlight.  He 
stooped  and  picked  up  a  little  silver  crucifix. 


Chapter  V 
The  Tang  of  Life 

WARING  rode  until  dawn,  when  he  pick- 
eted Dex  in  a  clump  of  chaparral  and 
lay  down  to  rest.  He  had  purposely 
passed  the  water-hole,  a  half-mile  south,  after  hav- 
ing watered  the  horse  and  refilled  his  canteen. 

There  was  a  distinction,  even  in  Sonora,  between 
Pedro  Salazar,  the  citizen,  and  Pedro  Salazar,  of  the 
Sonora  police.  The  rurales  might  get  busy.  Nogales 
and  the  Arizona  line  were  still  a  long  ride  ahead. 

Slowly  the  desert  sun  drew  overhead  and  swept 
the  scant  shadows  from  the  brush-walled  enclosure. 
Waring  slept.  Finally  the  big  buckskin  became  rest- 
less, circling  his  picket  and  lifting  his  head  to  peer 
over  the  brush.  Long  before  Waring  could  have 
been  aware  of  it,  had  he  been  awake,  the  horse 
saw  a  moving  something  on  the  southern  horizon. 
Trained  to  the  game  by  years  of  association  with  his 
master,  Dex  walked  to  where  Waring  lay  and  nosed 
his  arm.  The  gunman  rolled  to  his  side  and  peered 
through  the  chaparral. 

Far  in  the  south  a  moving  dot  wavered  in  the  sun. 
Waring  swept  the  southern  arc  with  his  glasses.  The 
moving  dot  was  a  Mexican,  a  horseman  riding  alone. 
He  rode  fast.  Waring  could  see  the  rise  and  fall  of  a 

41 


Tang  of  Life 

quirt.  "Some  one  killing  a  horse  to  get  somewhere," 
he  muttered,  and  he  saddled  Dex  and  waited.  The 
tiny  figure  drew  nearer.  Dex  grew  restless.  War- 
ing quieted  him  with  a  word. 

To  the  west  of  the  chaparral  lay  the  trail,  paral- 
leled at  a  distance  of  a  half-mile  by  the  railroad. 
The  glasses  discovered  the  lone  horseman  to  be 
Ramon,  of  Sonora.  The  boy  swayed  in  the  saddle 
as  the  horse  lunged  on.  Waring  knew  that  some- 
thing of  grave  import  had  sent  the  boy  out  into  the 
noon  desert.  He  was  at  first  inclined  to  let  him  pass 
and  then  ride  east  toward  the  Sierra  Madre.  If  the 
rurales  were  following,  they  would  trail  Dex  to  the 
water-hole.  And  if  Ramon  rode  on  north,  some  of 
them  would  trail  the  Mexican.  This  would  split  up 
the  band  —  decrease  the  odds  by  perhaps  one  half. 

But  the  idea  faded  from  Waring's  mind  as  he  saw 
the  boy  fling  past  desperately.  Waring  swung  to  the 
saddle  and  rode  out.  Ramon's  horse  plunged  to  a 
stop,  and  stood  trembling.  The  boy  all  but  fell  as 
he  dismounted.  Stumbling  toward  Waring,  he  held 
out  both  hands. 

"Senor,  the  rurales!"  he  gasped. 

"How  far  behind?" 

"The  railroad!  They  are  ahead!  They  have 
shipped  their  horses  to  Magdalena,  to  Nogales!" 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

"Pedro  Salazar  is  dead.  You  were  gone.  They 
say  it  was  you." 


The  Tang  of  Life 

"So  they  shipped  their  horses  ahead  to  cut  me 
off,  eh?  You're  a  good  boy,  Ramon,  but  I  don't 
know  what  in  hell  to  do  with  you.  Your  cayuse  is 
played  out.  You  made  a  good  ride." 

"Si,  senor.  I  have  not  stopped  once." 

"You  look  it.  You  can't  go  back  now.  They 
would  shoot  you." 

"I  will  ride  with  the  senor." 

Waring  shook  his  head. 

Ramon's  eyes  grew  desperate.  "Senor,"  he 
pleaded,  "take  me  with  you!  I  cannot  go  back.  I 
will  be  your  man  —  follow  you,  even  into  the  Great 
Beyond.  You  will  not  lose  the  way." 

And  as  Ramon  spoke  he  touched  the  little  cruci- 
fix on  his  breast. 

"Where  did  you  find  that?"  asked  Waring. 

"In  the  Placeta  Burro;  near  the  house  of  Pedro 
Salazar." 

Waring  nodded.   "Has  your  horse  had  water?" 

"No,  senor.  I  did  not  stop." 

"Take  him  back  to  the  water-hole.  Or,  here! 
Crawl  in  there  and  rest  up.  You  are  all  in.  I'll  take 
care  of  the  cayuse." 

When  Waring  returned  to  the  chaparral,  Ramon 
was  asleep,  flat  on  his  back,  his  arms  outspread  and 
his  mouth  open.  Waring  touched  him  with  his  boot. 
Ramon  muttered.  Waring  stooped  and  pulled  him  up. 

Within  the  hour  five  rurales  disembarked  from  a 
box-car  and  crossed  to  the  water-hole,  where  one 

43 


Tang  of  Life 

of  them  dismounted  and  searched  for  tracks.  Alert 
for  the  appearance  of  the  gringo,  they  rode  slowly 
toward  the  chaparral.  The  enclosure  was  empty. 
After  riding  a  wide  circle  round  the  brush,  they 
turned  and  followed  the  tracks  toward  the  eastern 
hills,  rein-chains  jingling  and  their  silver-trimmed 
buckskin  jackets  shimmering  in  the  sun. 

"I  will  ride  back,"  said  Ramon.  "My  horse  is 
too  weak  to  follow.  The  senor  rides  slowly  that  I 
may  keep  up  with  him." 

Waring  turned  in  the  saddle.  Ahead  lay  the  shad- 
owy foothills  of  the  mother  range,  vague  masses  in 
the  starlight.  Some  thirty  miles  behind  was  the 
railroad  and  the  trail  north.  There  was  no  chance 
of  picking  up  a  fresh  horse.  The  country  was  un- 
inhabited. Alone,  the  gunman  would  have  ridden 
swiftly  to  the  hill  country,  where  his  trail  would 
have  been  lost  in  the  rocky  ground  of  the  ranges  and 
where  he  would  have  had  the  advantage  of  an  un- 
obstructed outlook  from  the  high  trails. 

Ramon  had  said  the  rurales  had  entrained;  were 
ahead  of  him  to  intercept  him.  But  Waring,  wise  in 
his  craft,  knew  that  the  man-hunters  would  search 
for  tracks  at  every  water-hole  on  the  long  northern 
trail.  And  if  they  found  his  tracks  they  would  follow 
him  to  the  hills.  They  were  as  keen  on  the  trail  as 
Yaquis  and  as  relentless  as  wolves.  Their  horses, 
raw-hide  tough,  could  stand  a  forced  ride  that  would 

44 


The  Tang  of  Life 

kill  an  ordinary  horse.  And  Ramon's  wiry  little 
cayuse,  though  willing  to  go  on  until  he  dropped, 
could  not  last  much  longer. 

But  to  leave  Ramon  to  the  rurales  was  not  in 
Waring's  mind.  "We'll  keep  on,  amigo,"  he  said, 
"and  in  a  few  hours  we'll  know  whether  it's  to  be  a 
ride  or  a  fight." 

"I  shall  pray,"  whispered  Ramon. 

"For  a  fresh  horse,  then." 

"No,  senor.  That  would  be  of  no  use.  I  shall 
pray  that  you  may  escape.  As  for  me  — " 

"We'll  hit  the  glory  trail  together,  muchacho. 
If  you  get  bumped  off,  it's  your  own  funeral.  You 
should  have  stayed  in  Sonora." 

Ramon  sighed.  The  senor  was  a  strange  man. 
Even  now  he  hummed  a  song  in  the  starlight.  Was 
he,  then,  so  unafraid  of  death  that  he  could  sing  in 
the  very  shadow  of  its  wings? 

"You've  got  a  hunch  that  the  rurales  are  on  our 
trail,"  said  Waring,  as  they  rode  on. 

"It  is  so,  senor." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

,"I  cannot  say.  But  it  is  so.  They  have  left  the 
railroad  and  are  following  us." 

Waring  smiled  in  the  dark.  "Dex,  here,  has  been 
trying  to  tell  me  that  for  an  hour." 

"And  still  the  senor  does  not  hasten!" 

"I  am  giving  your  cayuse  a  chance  to  make  the 
grade.  We'll  ride  an  hour  longer." 

45  , 


Tang  of  Life 

Ramon  bowed  his  head.  The  horses  plodded  on, 
working  up  the  first  gentle  slope  of  the  foothills. 
The  brush  loomed  heavier.  A  hill  star  faded  on 
the  edge  of  the  higher  range.  Ramon's  lips  moved 
and  he  crossed  himself. 

Waring  hummed  a  song.  He  was  not  unhappy. 
The  tang  of  life  was  his  again.  Again  he  followed  a 
trail  down  which  the  light  feet  of  Romance  ran 
swiftly.  The  past,  with  its  red  flare  of  life,  its  keen 
memories  and  dulled  regrets,  was  swept  away  by 
the  promise  of  dawn  and  the  unknown.  "A  clean 
break  and  a  hard  fight,"  he  murmured,  as  he  reined 
up  to  rest  his  horse.  Turning,  he  could  distinguish 
Ramon,  who  fingered  the  crucifix  at  his  throat. 
Waring's  face  grew  grim.  He  felt  suddenly  account- 
able for  the  boy's  life. 

The  half-moon  glowed  against  the  edge  of  the 
world.  About  to  ride  on  again,  Waring  saw  a  tiny 
group  of  horsemen  silhouetted  against  the  half-disk 
of  burning  silver.  He  spoke  to  his  horse.  Slowly  they 
climbed  the  ridge,  dropped  down  the  eastern  slope, 
and  climbed  again. 

In  a  shallow  valley,  Waring  reined  up,  unsaddled 
Dex,  and  turned  him  loose.  Ramon  questioned  this. 
"Turn  your  horse  loose,"  said  Waring.  "They'll 
keep  together  and  find  water." 

Ramon  shook  his  head,  but  did  as  he  was  told. 
Wearily  he  followed  Waring  as  he  climbed  back  to  a 
rocky  depression  on  the  crest.  Without  a  word  War- 

46 


The  Tang  of  Life 

ing  stretched  behind  a  rock  and  was  soon  asleep. 
Ramon  wondered  at  the  other's  indifference  to  dan- 
ger, but  fatigue  finally  overcame  him  and  he  slept. 

Just  before  dawn  Ramon  awakened  and  touched 
Waring.  "They  are  coming!"  he  whispered. 

Waring  shook  his  head.  "You  hear  our  horses. 
The  rurales  won't  ride  into  this  pocket  before  day- 
light. Stay  right  here  till  I  come  back." 

He  rose  and  worked  cautiously  down  the  eastern 
slope,  searching  for  Dex  in  the  valley.  In  the  gray 
gloom  he  saw  the  outline  of  his  horse  grazing  alone. 
He  stepped  down  to  him.  The  big  horse  raised  its 
head.  Waring  spoke.  Reassured,  Dex  plodded  to 
his  master,  who  turned  and  tracked  back  to  the 
pocket  in  the  rocks.  "I  think  your  cayuse  has 
drifted  south,"  he  told  Ramon. 

The  young  Mexican  showed  no  surprise.  He 
seemed  resigned  to  the  situation.  "I  knew  when  the 
senor  said  to  turn  my  horse  loose  that  he  would  seek 
the  horses  of  his  kind.  He  has  gone  back  to  the 
horses  of  those  who  follow  us." 

"You  said  it!"  said  Waring.  "And  that's  going 
to  bother  them.  It  tells  me  that  the  rurales  are  not 
far  behind.  They  '11  figure  that  I  put  you  out  of  busi- 
ness to  get  rid  of  you.  They'll  look  for  a  dead  Mexi- 
can, and  a  live  gringo  riding  north,  alone.  But 
they're  too  wise  to  ride  up  here.  They'll  trail  up 
afoot  and  out  of  sight.  That's  your  one  chance." 

"My  chance,  senor?" 

47 


Tang  of  Life 

"Yes.  Here's  some  grub.  You've  got  your  gun. 
Drift  down  the  slope,  get  back  of  the  next  ridge, 
and  strike  south.  Locate  their  horses  and  wait  till 
they  leave  them  to  come  up  here.  Get  a  horse.  Pick 
a  good  one.  I'll  keep  them  busy  till  you  get  back." 

Ramon  rose  and  climbed  to  the  edge  of  the  pocket. 
"I  go,"  he  said  sadly.  "And  I  shall  never  see  the 
senor  again." 

"Don't  bet  all  you've  got  on  that,"  said  Waring. 

When  Ramon  had  disappeared,  Waring  led  Dex 
back  from  the  pocket,  and,  saddling  him,  left  him 
concealed  in  the  brush.  Then  the  gunman  crept 
back  to  the  rim  and  lay  waiting,  a  handful  of  rifle 
shells  loose  on  a  flat  rock  in  front  of  him.  He  munched 
some  dried  meat  and  drank  from  the  canteen. 

The  red  dawn  faded  quickly  to  a  keen  white  light. 
Heat  waves  ran  over  the  rocks  and  danced  down  the 
hillside.  Waring  lighted  a  match  and  blackened 
the  front  sight  of  his  carbine.  The  sun  rolled  up  and 
struck  at  him,  burning  into  the  pocket  of  rock  where 
he  lay  motionless  gazing  down  the  slope.  Sweat 
beaded  his  forehead  and  trickled  down  his  nose. 
Scattered  boulders  seemed  to  move  gently.  He 
closed  his  eyes  for  an  instant.  When  he  opened 
them  he  thought  he  saw  a  movement  in  the  brush 
below.  The  heat  burned  into  his  back,  and  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  A  tiny  bird  flitted  past  and 
perched  on  the  dry,  dead  stalk. of  a  yucca.  Again 
Waring  thought  he  saw  a  movement  in  the  brush. 

48 


The  Tang  of  Life 

Then,  as  if  by  magic,  the  figure  of  a  rural  stood 
clear  and  straight  against  the  distant  background 
of  brownish-green.  Waring  smiled.  He  knew  that 
if  he  were  to  fire,  the  rurales  would  rush  him.  They 
suspected  some  kind  of  a  trap.  Waring's  one  chance 
was  to  wait  until  they  had  given  up  every  ruse  to 
draw  his  fire.  They  were  not  certain  of  his  where- 
abouts, but  were  suspicious  of  that  natural  fortress 
of  rock.  There  was  not  a  rural  in  Old  Mexico  who 
did  not  know  him  either  personally  or  by  reputa- 
tion. The  fact  that  one  of  them  had  offered  himself 
as  a  possible  target  proved  that  they  knew  they 
had  to  deal  with  a  man  as  crafty  as  themselves. 

The  standing  figure,  shimmering  in  the  glare, 
drew  back  and  disappeared. 

Waring  eased  his  tense  muscles.  "Now  they'll  go 
back  for  their  horses,"  he  said  to  himself.  "They'll 
ride  up  to  the  next  ridge,  where  they  can  look  down 
on  this  pocket,  but  I  won't  be  here." 

Waring  planned  every  move  with  that  care  and 
instinct  which  marks  a  good  chess-player.  And  be- 
cause he  had  to  count  upon  possibilities  far  ahead 
he  drew  Ramon's  saddle  to  him  and  cut  the  stirrup- 
leathers,  cinchas,  and  latigos.  If  Ramon  got  one 
of  their  horses,  his  own  jaded  animal  would  be  left. 
Eventually  the  rurales  would  find  the  saddle  and 
Ramon's  horse.  And  every  rural  out  of  the  riding 
would  be  a  factor  in  their  escape. 

The  sun  blazed  down  until  the  pocket  of  rock  was 

49 


Tang  of  Life 

a  pit  of  stagnant  heat.  The  silence  seemed  like  an 
ocean  rolling  in  soundless  waves  across  the  hills;  a 
silence  that  became  disturbed  by  a  faint  sound  as  of 
one  approaching  cautiously.  Waring  thought  Ramon 
had  shown  cleverness  in  working  up  to  him  so  quietly. 
He  raised  on  his  elbow  and  turned  his  head.  On  the 
eastern  edge  of  the  pocket  stood  a  rural,  and  the 
rural  smiled. 


Chapter  VI 

Arizona 

WARING,  who  had  known  the  man  in 
Sonora,  called  him  by  name.  The  other's 
smile  faded,  and  his  eyes  narrowed.  War- 
ing thrust  up  his  hands  and  jokingly  offered  to  toss 
up  a  coin  to  decide  the  issue.  He  knew  his  man;  knew 
that  at  the  first  false  move  the  rural  would  kill  him. 
He  rose  and  turned  sideways  that  the  other  might 
take  his  gun.  "You  win  the  throw,"  he  said.  The 
Mexican  jerked  Waring's  gun  from  the  holster  and 
cocked  it.  Then  he  whistled. 

From  below  came  the  faint  clatter  of  hoofs.  The 
rural  seemed  puzzled  that  his  call  should  have  been 
answered  so  promptly.  He  knew  that  his  companions 
had  gone  for  their  horses,  picketed  some  distance 
from  the  pocket.  He  had  volunteered  to  surprise  the 
gunman  single-handed. 

Waring,  gazing  beyond  the  rural,  saw  the  head  of  a 
horse  top  the  rise.  In  the  saddle  sat  Ramon,  hatless, 
his  black  hair  flung  back  from  his  forehead,  a  gun 
in  his  hand.  Waring  drew  a  deep  breath.  Would 
Ramon  bungle  it  by  calling  out,  or  would  he  have 
nerve  enough  to  make  an  end  of  it  on  the  instant? 

Although  Waring  was  unarmed,  the  rural  dared  not 
turn.  The  gringo  had  been  known  to  slip  out  of  as 

51 


Tang  of  Life 

tight  a  place  despite  the  threat  of  a  gun  almost 
against  his  chest.  With  a  despondent  shrug,  Waring 
lowered  his  arms. 

"You  win  the  throw,"  he  said  hopelessly. 

Still  the  Mexican  dared  not  take  his  eyes  from 
Waring.  He  would  wait  until  his  companions  ap- 
peared. 

A  few  yards  behind  the  rural,  Ramon  reined  up. 
Slowly  he  lowered  the  muzzle  of  his  gun.  The  rural 
called  the  name  of  one  of  his  fellows.  The  answer  came 
in  a  blunt  crash,  which  rippled  its  harsh  echoes  across 
the  sounding  hills.  The  rural  flung  up  his  arms  and 
pitched  forward,  rolling  to  Waring's  feet.  The  gun- 
man leaped  up,  and,  snatching  his  carbine  from  the 
rock,  swung  round  and  took  his  six-gun  from  the 
rural's  limp  fingers.  Plunging  to  the  brush  beyond 
the  pocket,  he  swung  to  the  saddle  and  shot  down  the 
slope.  Behind  him  he  could  hear  Ramon's  horse  scat- 
tering the  loose  rock  of  the  hillside.  A  bullet  struck 
ahead  of  him  and  whined  across  the  silence.  A  shrill 
call  told  him  that  the  pursuers  had  discovered  the 
body  of  their  fellow. 

Dex,  with  ears  laid  back,  took  the  ragged  grade  in 
great,  uneven  leaps  that  shortened  to  a  regular  stride 
as  they  gained  the  level  of  the  valley.  Glancing  back, 
Waring  saw  Ramon  but  a  few  yards  behind.  He  sig- 
naled to  him  to  ride  closer.  Together  they  swung 
down  the  valley,  dodging  the  low  brush  —  and  leaping 
rocks  at  top  speed. 

52 


Arizona 

Finally  Waring  reined  in.  "We'll  make  for  that 
ridge,"  —  and  he  indicated  the  range  west.  Under 
cover  of  the  brush  they  angled  across  the  valley  and 
began  the  ascent  of  the  range  which  hid  the  western 
desert. 

Halfway  up,  Waring  dismounted.  "Lead  my  horse 
on  up,"  he  told  Ramon.  "I'll  argue  it  out  with  'em 
here." 

"Senor,  I  have  killed  a  man!"  gasped  Ramon. 

Waring  flung  the  reins  to  his  companion.  "All 
right!  This  is  n't  a  fiesta,  hombre;  this  is  business." 

Ramon  turned  and  put  his  horse  up  the  slope,  Dex 
following.  Waring  curled  behind  a  rock  and  swept 
the  valley  with  his  glass.  The  heads  of  several  rurales 
were  visible  in  the  brush.  They  had  halted  and  were 
looking  for  tracks.  Finally  one  of  them  raised  his  arm 
and  pointed  toward  the  hill.  They  had  caught  sight 
of  Ramon  on  the  slope  above.  Presently  three  riders 
appeared  at  the  foot  of  the  grade.  It  was  a  long  shot 
from  where  Waring  lay.  He  centered  on  the  leading 
rural,  allowed  for  a  chance  of  overshooting,  and 
pressed  the  trigger.  The  carbine  snarled.  An  echo 
ripped  the  shimmering  heat.  A  horse  reared  and 
plunged  up  the  valley,  the  saddle  empty. 

Waring  rose,  and  plodded  up  the  slope. 

"Three  would  have  trailed  us.  Two  will  ride  back 
to  the  railroad  and  report.  I  wonder  how  many  of 
them  are  bushed  along  the  trail  between  here  and 
Nogales?" 

53 


Tang  of  Life 

In  the  American  custom-house  at  Nogales  sat  a 
lean,  lank  man  gazing  out  of  a  window  facing  the 
south.  His  chair  was  tilted  back,  and  his  large  feet 
were  crossed  on  the  desk  in  front  of  him.  He  was  in 
his  shirt-sleeves,  and  he  puffed  indolently  at  a  cigar 
and  blew  smoke-rings  toward  the  ceiling.  Incident- 
ally his  name  was  known  throughout  the  country  and 
beyond  its  southern  borders.  But  if  this  distinction 
affected  him  in  any  way  it  was  not  evident.  He 
seemed  submerged  in  a  lassitude  which  he  neither 
invited  nor  struggled  against. 

A  group  of  riders  appeared  down  the  road.  The 
lean  man  brushed  a  cloud  of  smoke  away  and  gazed 
at  them  with  indifference.  They  drew  nearer.  He 
saw  that  they  were  Mexicans  —  rurales.  Without 
turning  his  head,  he  called  to  an  invisible  somebody 
in  the  next  room. 

"Jack,  drift  over  to  the  cantina  and  get  a  drink." 

A  chair  clumped  to  the  floor,  and  a  stocky,  dark- 
faced  man  appeared,  rubbing  his  eyes.  "On  who?" 
he  queried,  grinning. 

"On  old  man  Diaz,"  replied  the  lean  man. 

"All  right,  Pat.  But  mebby  his  credit  ain't  good 
on  our  side  of  the  line." 

The  lean  man  said  nothing.  He  continued  to  gaze 
out  of  the  window.  The  white  road  ran  south  and 
south  into  the  very  haze  of  the  beyond.  His  assistant 
picked  up  a  hat  and  strolled  out.  A  few  doors  down 
the  street  stood  several  excellent  saddle  animals  tied 

54 


Arizona 

to  the  hitching-rail  in  front  of  the  cantina.  He  did  n't 
need  to  be  told  that  they  were  the  picked  horses  of 
the  rurales,  and  that  for  some  strange  reason  his  su- 
perior had  sent  him  to  find  out  just  why  these  same 
rurales  were  in  town. 

He  entered  the  cantina  and  called  for  a  drink.  The 
lithe,  dark  riders  of  the  south,  grouped  round  a  table 
in  one  corner  of  the  room,  glanced  up,  answered  his 
general  nod  of  salutation  indifferently,  and  turned  to 
talk  among  themselves.  Catering  to  authority,  the 
Mexican  proprietor  proffered  a  second  drink  to  the 
Americano.  The  assistant  collector  toyed  with  his 
glass,  and  began  a  lazy  conversation  about  the 
weather.  The  proprietor,  his  fat,  oily  face  in  his  hands 
and  his  elbows  on  the  bar,  grunted  monosyllables, 
occasionally  nodding  as  the  Americano  forced  his 
acknowledgment  of  a  highly  obvious  platitude. 

And  the  assistant  collector,  listening  for  a  chance 
word  that  would  explain  the  presence  of  armed  Mex- 
ico on  American  soil,  knew  that  the  proprietor  was 
also  listening  for  that  same  word  that  might  explain 
their  unprecedented  visit.  Presently  the  assistant 
collector  of  customs  began  a  tirade  against  Nogales, 
its  climate,  institutions,  and  citizens  collectively  and 
singly.  The  proprietor  awoke  to  argument.  Their 
talk  grew  loud.  The  assistant  collector  thumped  the 
bar  with  his  fist,  and  ceased  talking  suddenly.  A  sub- 
dued buzz  came  from  the  corner  where  the  rurales 
sat,  and  he  caught  the  name  "Waring." 

55 


Tang  of  Life 

"And  the  whole  town  ain't  worth  the  matches  to 
burn  it  up,"  he  continued.  "If  it  was  n't  for  Pat,  I'd 
quit  right  now."  And  he  emptied  his  glass  and  strode 
from  the  room. 

Back  in  the  office,  he  flung  his  hat  on  the  table  and 
rumpled  his  hair.  "Those  coyotes,"  he  said  casually, 
"are  after  some  one  called  Waring.  Pablo's  whiskey 
is  rotten." 

The  collector's  long  legs  unfolded,  and  he  sat  up, 
yawning.  "Jim  Waring  isn't  in  town,"  he  said  as 
though  to  himself. 

"Pat,  you  give  me  a  pain,"  said  the  assistant, 
grinning. 

"Got  one  myself,"  said  the  collector  unsmilingly. 
"  Cucumbers." 

"You're  the  sweetest  liar  for  a  thousand  miles 
either  side  of  the  line.  There  is  n't  even  the  picture 
of  a  cucumber  in  this  sun-blasted  town." 

"Isn't,  eh?  Look  here!"  And  the  lank  man 
pulled  open  a  drawer  in  the  desk.  The  collector 
fumbled  among  some  papers  and  drew  out  a  bulky 
seed  catalogue,  illustrated  in  glowing  tints. 

"Oh,  I'll  buy,"  laughed  the  assistant.  "I  reckon 
if  I  asked  for  a  picture  of  this  man  Waring  that's 
wanted  by  those  nickel-plated  coyotes,  you'd  fish  it 
up  and  never  sweat  a  hair." 

"I  could,"  said  the  collector,  closing  the  drawer. 
"Here,  smoke  one  of  mine  for  a  change.  About  that 
picture.  I  met  Jim  Waring  in  Las  Cruces.  He  was  a 

56 


Arizona 

kid  then,  but  a  comer.  Had  kind  of  light,  curly  hair. 
His  face  was  as  smooth  as  a  girl's.  He  was  n't  what 
you  'd  call  a  dude,  but  his  clothes  always  looked  good 
on  him.  Wimmin  kind  of  liked  him,  but  he  never 
paid  much  attention  to  them.  He  worked  for  me  as 
deputy  a  spell,  and  I  never  hired  a  better  man.  But 
he  would  n't  stay  with  one  job  long.  When  Las 
Cruces  got  quiet  he  pulled  his  freight.  Next  I  heard 
of  him  he  was  married  and  living  in  Sonora.  It  did  n't 
take  Diaz  long  to  find  out  that  he  could  use  him. 
Waring  was  a  wizard  with  a  gun  —  and  he  had  the 
nerve  back  of  it.  But  Waring  quit  Diaz,  for  Jim 
was  n't  that  kind  of  a  killer.  I  guess  he  found  plenty 
of  work  down  there.  He  never  was  one  to  lay  around 
living  on  his  reputation  and  waiting  for  nothing  to 
happen.  He  kept  his  reputation  sprouting  new  shoots 
right  along  —  and  that  ain't  all  joke,  neither." 

"Speakin'  in  general,  could  he  beat  you  to  it  with 
a  gun,  Pat?" 

"Speaking  in  general  —  I  reckon  he  could." 

"Them  rurales  are  kind  of  careless  —  ridin*  over 
the  line  and  not  stoppin'  by  to  make  a  little  explana- 
tion." 

The  lank  man  nodded.  "There's  a  time  coming 
when  they  '11  do  more  than  that.  That  old  man  down 
south  is  losing  his  grip.  I  don't  say  this  for  general 
information.  And  if  Jim  Waring  happens  to  ride  into 
town,  just  tell  him  who  you  are  and  pinch  him  for 
smuggling;  unless  I  see  him  first." 

57 


Tang  of  Life 

"  What  did  I  ever  do  to  you?" 

Pat  laughed  silently.  "Oh,  he  ain't  a  fool.  It's 
only  a  fool  that'll  throw  away  a  chance  to  play  safe." 

"You  got  me  interested  in  that  Waring  hombre. 
I'll  sure  nail  him  like  you  said;  but  if  he  goes  for  his 
gun  I  don't  want  you  plantin'  no  cucumber  seed  on 
my  restin'-place.  Guess  I'll  finish  those  reports." 

The  lank  man  yawned,  and,  rising,  strode  to  the 
window.  The  assistant  sauntered  to  the  inner  office 
and  drew  up  to  his  desk.  "Pablo's  whiskey  is  rotten !" 
he  called  over  his  shoulder.  The  lank  collector 
smiled. 

The  talk  about  Waring  and  Las  Graces  had  stirred 
slumbering  memories;  memories  of  night  rides  in  New 
Mexico,  of  the  cattle  war,  of  blazing  noons  on  the 
high  mesas  and  black  nights  in  huddled  adobe  towns; 
Las  Cruces,  Albuquerque,  Caliente,  Santa  Fe  —  and 
weary  ponies  at  the  hitching-rails. 

Once,  on  an  afternoon  like  this,  he  had  ridden  into 
town  with  a  prisoner  beside  him,  a  youth  whose 
lightning-swift  hand  had  snuffed  out  a  score  of  lives 
to  avenge  the  killing  of  a  friend.  The  collector  re- 
called that  on  that  day  he  had  ridden  his  favorite 
horse,  a  deep-chested  buckskin,  slender  legged,  and 
swift,  with  a  strain  of  thorough-bred. 

Beyond  the  little  square  of  window  through  which 
he  gazed  lay  the  same  kind  of  a  road  —  dusty,  sun- 
white,  edged  with  low  brush.  And  down  the  road, 
pace  for  pace  with  his  thoughts,  strode  a  buckskin 

58 


Arizona 

horse,  ridden  by  a  man  road-weary,  gray  with  dust. 
Beside  him  rode  a  youth,  his  head  bowed  and  his 
hands  clasped  on  the  saddle-horn  as  though  man- 
acled. 

"Jack!" 

The  assistant  shoved  back  his  chair  and  came  to 
the  window. 

"There's  the  rest  of  your  picture,"  said  the  col- 
lector. 

As  the  assistant  gazed  at  the  riders,  the  collector 
stepped  to  his  desk  and  buckled  on  a  gun. 

"Want  to  meet  Waring?"  he  queried. 

"I'm  on  for  the  next  dance,  Pat." 

The  collector  stepped  out.  Waring  reined  up.  A 
stray  breeze  fluttered  the  flag  above  the  custom- 
house. Waring  gravely  lifted  his  sombrero. 

"You're  under  arrest,"  said  the  collector. 

Waring  gestured  toward  Ramon. 

"You,  too,"  nodded  Pat.  "Get  the  kid  and  his 
horse  out  of  sight,"  he  told  the  assistant. 

Ramon,  too  weary  to  expostulate,  followed  the 
assistant  to  a  corral  back  of  the  building. 

The  collector  turned  to  Waring.  "And  now,  Jim, 
what's  the  row?" 

"Down  the  street  —  and  coming,"  said  Waring, 
as  the  rurales  boiled  from  the  cantina. 

"We'll  meet  'em  halfway,"  said  the  collector. 

And  midway  between  the  custom-house  and  the 
cantina  the  two  cool-eyed,  deliberate  men  of  the 

59 


Tang  of  Life 

North  faced  the  hot-blooded  Southern  haste  that 
demanded  Waring  as  prisoner.  The  collector,  ad- 
dressing the  leader  of  the  rurales,  suggested  that 
they  talk  it  over  in  the  cantina.  "And  don't  for- 
get you're  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  line,"  he  added. 

The  Captain  of  rurales  and  one  of  his  men  dis- 
mounted and  followed  the  Americans  into  the  can- 
tina. The  leader  of  the  rurales  immediately  exhibited 
a  warrant  for  the  arrest  of  Waring,  signed  by  a  high 
official  and  sealed  with  the  great  seal  of  Mexico.  The 
collector  returned  the  warrant  to  the  captain. 

"That's  all  right,  amigo,  but  this  man  is  already 
under  arrest." 

"By  whose  authority?" 

"Mine  —  representing  the  United  States." 

"The  warrant  of  the  Presidente  antedates  your 
action,"  said  the  captain. 

"Correct,  Senor  Capitan.  But  my  action,  being 
just  about  two  jumps  ahead  of  your  warrant,  wins 
the  race,  I  reckon." 

"It  is  a  trick!" 

"Si!  You  must  have  guessed  it." 

"I  shall  report  to  my  Government.  And  I  also 
demand  that  you  surrender  to  me  one  Ramon  Or- 
tego,  of  Sonora,  who  aided  this  man  to  escape,  and 
who  is  reported  to  have  killed  one  of  my  men  and 
stolen  one  of  my  horses." 

"He  ought  to  make  a  darned  good  rural,  if  that's 
so,"  said  the  collector.  "But  he  is  under  arrest  for 

60 


Arizona 

smuggling.  He  rode  a  horse  across  the  line  with- 
out declaring  valuation." 

"Juan,"  said  the  captain,  "seize  the  horse  of  the 
Americano." 

"Juan,"  echoed  Waring  softly,  "I  have  heard  that 
Pedro  Salazar  seized  the  horse  of  an  Americano  — 
in  Sonora." 

The  rural  stopped  short  and  turned  as  though 
awaiting  further  instructions  from  his  chief.  The 
collector  of  customs  rose  and  sauntered  to  the  door- 
way. Leaning  against  the  lintel,  he  lighted  a  cigar 
and  smoked,  gazing  at  Waring's  horse  with  an 
appreciative  eye.  The  captain  of  rurales,  seated 
opposite  Waring,  rolled  a  cigarette  carefully;  too 
carefully,  thought  Waring,  for  a  Mexican  who  had 
been  daring  enough  to  ride  across  the  line  with 
armed  men.  Outside  in  the  fading  sunlight,  the 
horses  of  the  rurales  stamped  and  fretted.  The  can- 
tina  was  strangely  silent.  In  the  doorway  stood  the 
collector,  smoking  and  toying  with  his  watch-charm. 

Presently  the  assistant  collector  appeared,  glanced 
in,  and  grinned.  "The  kid  is  asleep  —  in  the  office," 
he  whispered  to  the  collector. 

Waring  knew  that  the  flicker  of  an  eyelid,  an  in- 
tonation, a  gesture,  might  precipitate  trouble.  He 
also  knew  that  diplomacy  was  out  of  the  question. 
He  glanced  round  the  room,  pushed  back  his  chair, 
and,  rising,  stepped  to  the  bar.  With  his  back  against 
it,  he  faced  the  captain. 

61 


Tang  of  Life 

"Miguel,"  he  said  quietly,  "you're  too  far  over  the 
line.  Go  home!" 

The  captain  rose.  "Your  Government  shall  hear 
of  this!" 

"Yes.  Wire  'em  to-night.  And  where  do  you  get 
off?  You'll  get  turned  back  to  the  ranks." 

"I?" 

*  "Si,  Sefior  Capitan,  and  because  —  you  did  n't  get 
your  man." 

The  collector  of  customs  stood  with  his  cigar  care- 
fully poised  in  his  left  hand.  The  assistant  pushed 
back  his  hat  and  rumpled  his  black  hair. 

All  official  significance  set  aside,  Waring  and  the 
captain  of  rurales  faced  each  other  with  the  blunt  chal- 
lenge between  them:  "You  did  n't  get  your  man!" 

The  captain  glanced  at  the  two  quiet  figures  in  the 
doorway.  Beyond  them  were  his  own  men,  but  be- 
tween him  and  his  command  were  two  of  the  fastest 
guns  in  the  Southwest.  He  was  on  alien  ground.  This 
gringo  had  insulted  him. 

Waring  waited  for  the  word  that  burned  in  the 
other's  eyes. 

•  The  collector  of  customs  drew  a  big  silver  watch 
from  his  waistband.   "It's  about  time  — to  go  feed 
the  horses,"  he  said. 

With  the  sound  of  his  voice  the  tension  relaxed. 
Waring  eyed  the  captain  as  though  waiting  for  him  to 
depart.  "You'll  find  that  horse  in  the  corral  —  back 
of  the  customs  office,"  he  said. 


Arizona 

The  Mexican  swung  round  and  strode  out,  fol- 
lowed by  his  man. 

The  rurales  mounted  and  rode  down  the  street. 
The  three  Americans  followed  a  few  paces  behind. 
Opposite  the  office,  they  paused. 

"Go  along  with  'em  and  see  that  they  get  the  right 
horse,"  said  the  collector. 

The  assistant  hesitated. 

The  collector  laughed.  "Shake  hands  with  Jim 
Waring,  Jack." 

When  the  assistant  had  gone,  the  collector  turned 
to  Waring.  "That's  Jack  every  time.  Stubborn  as 
a  tight  boot,  but  good  leather  every  time.  Know 
why  he  wanted  to  shake  hands?  Well,  that's  his  way 
of  tellin'  you  he  thinks  you're  some  smooth  for  not 
pullin'  a  fight  when  it  looked  like  nothing  else  was 
on  the  bill." 

Waring  smiled.  "I've  met  you  before,  haven't 
I?" 

Pat  pretended  to  ignore  the  question.  "Say, 
stranger,"  he  began  with  slow  emphasis,  "you're 
makin'  mighty  free  and  familiar  for  a  prisoner  ar- 
rested for  smuggling.  Mebby  you're  all  right  per- 
sonal, but  officially  I  got  a  case  against  you.  What 
do  you  know  about  raising  cucumbers?  I  got  a  cata- 
logue in  the  office,  and  me  and  Jack  has  been  aiming 
to  raise  cucumbers  from  it  for  three  months.  I  like 
'em.  Jack  says  you  can't  do  it  down  here  without 
water  every  day.  Now — " 

63 


Tang  of  Life 

" Where  have  you  planted  them,  Pat?" 

"Oh,  hell!  They  ain't  planted  yet.  We're  just 
figuring.  Now,  up  Las  Graces  way  — " 

"Let's  go  back  to  the  cantina  and  talk  it  out. 
There  goes  Mexico  leading  a  horse  with  an  empty 
saddle.  I  guess  the  boy  will  be  all  right  in  the  office." 

"Was  the  kid  mixed  up  in  your  getaway?" 

"Yes.  And  he's  a  good  boy." 

"Well,  he's  in  dam'  bad  company.  Now,  Jack  says 
you  got  to  plant  'em  in  hills  and  irrigate.  I  aim  to 
just  drill  'em  in  and  let  the  A'mighty  do  the  rest. 
What  do  you  think?" 

"I  think  you're  getting  worse  as  you  grow  older, 
Pat.  Say,  did  you  ever  get  track  of  that  roan  mare 
you  lost  up  at  Las  Graces?" 

"Yes,  I  got  her  back." 

"Speaking  of  horses,  I  saw  a  pinto  down  in  So- 


nora — " 


Just  then  the  assistant  joined  them,  and  they 
sauntered  to  the  cantina.  Dex,  tied  at  the  rail,  turned 
and  gazed  at  them.  Waring  took  the  morral  of  grain 
from  the  saddle,  and,  slipping  Dex's  bridle,  adjusted 
it. 

The  rugged,  lean  face  of  the  collector  beamed.  "I 
wondered  if  you  thought  as  much  of  'em  as  you  used 
to.  I  aimed  to  see  if  I  could  make  you  forget  to  feed 
that  cayuse." 

"How  about  those  goats  in  your  own  corral?" 
laughed  Waring. 

64 


Arizona 

"Kind  of  a  complimentary  cuss,  ain't  he?"  queried 
Pat,  turning  to  his  assistant.  "And  he  don't  know  a 
dam'  thing  about  cucumbers." 

"You  old-timers  give  me  a  pain,"  said  the  assistant, 
grinning. 

"That's  right!  Because  you  can't  set  down  to  a 
meal  without  both  your  hands  and  feet  agoing  and  one 
ear  laid  back,  you  call  us  old  because  we  chew  slow. 
But  you  're  right.  Jim  and  I  are  getting  kind  of  gray 
around  the  ears." 

"Well,  you  fellas  can  fight  it  out.  I  came  over  to 
say  that  them  rurales  got  their  hoss.  But  one  of  'em 
let  it  slip,  in  Mexican,  that  they  weren't  through 
yet." 

"So?"  said  Pat.  "Well,  you  go  ahead  and  feed  the 
stock.  We'll  be  over  to  the  house  poco  tiempo." 

Waring  and  the  collector  entered  the  cantina.  For 
a  long  time  they  sat  in  silence,  gazing  at  the  peculiar 
half-lights  as  the  sun  drew  down.  Finally  the  collec- 
tor turned  to  Waring. 

"Has  the  game  gone  stale,  Jim?" 

Waring  nodded.  "I'm  through.  I  am  going  to 
settle  down.  I've  had  my  share  of  trouble." 

"Here,  too,"  said  the  collector.  "I've  put  by 
enough  to  get  a  little  place  up  north  —  cattle  —  and 
take  it  easy.  That's  why  I  stuck  it  out  down  here. 
Had  any  word  from  your  folks  recent?" 

"Not  for  ten  years." 

"And  that  boy  trailing  with  you?" 

65 


Tang  of  Life 

"Oh,  he's  just  a  kid  I  picked  up  in  Sonora.  No. 
my  own  boy  is  straight  American,  if  he's  living  now." 

"You  might  stop  by  at  Stacey,  on  the  Santa 
Fe,"  said  the  collector  casually.  "There's  some  folks 
running  a  hotel  up  there  that  you  used  to  know." 

Waring  thanked  him  with  a  glance.  "We  don't 
need  a  drink  and  the  sun  is  down.  Where  do  you 
eat?" 

"We'll  get  Jack  to  rustle  some  grub.  You  and  the 
boy  can  bunk  in  the  office.  I'll  take  care  of  your 
horse." 

"Thanks,  Pat.  But  you  spoke  of  going  north.  I 
would  n't  if  I  were  you.  They'll  get  you." 

"I  had  thought  of  that.  But  I'm  going  to  take 
that  same  chance.  I'm  plumb  sick  of  the  border." 

"If  they  do  —  "  And  Waring  rose. 

The  collector's  hard-lined  face  softened  for  an  in- 
stant. He  thrust  out  his  bony  hand.  "I'll  leave  that 
to  you,  Jim." 

And  that  night,  because  each  was  a  gunman  un- 
surpassed in  his  grim  profession,  they  laughed  and 
talked  about  things  trivial,  leaving  the  deeper  cur- 
rents undisturbed.  And  the  assistant  collector,  eat- 
ing with  them  in  the  adobe  back  of  the  office,  won- 
dered that  two  such  men  found  nothing  more  serious 
to  talk  about  than  the  breeding  of  horses  and  the 
growing  of  garden  truck. 

Late  that  night  the  assistant  awoke  to  find  that  the 
collector  was  not  in  bed.  He  rose  and  stalked  to  the 

66 


Arizona 

window.  Across  from  the  adobe  he  saw  the  grim  face 
of  the  collector  framed  in  the  office  window.  He  was 
smoking  a  cigar  and  gazing  toward  the  south,  his  long 
arm  resting  on  the  sill  and  his  chin  in  his  hand. 

"Ole  fool!"  muttered  the  assistant  affectionately. 
"That  there  Jim  Waring  must  sure  be  some  hombre 
to  make  Pat  lose  any  sleep." 


Chapter  VII 
The  Return  of  Waring 

THE  interior  of  the  little  desert  hotel  at 
Stacey,  Arizona,  atoned  for  its  bleached  and 
weather-worn  exterior  by  a  refreshing  neat- 
ness that  was  almost  startling  in  contrast  to  the 
warped  board  front  with  its  painted  sign  scaled  by  the 
sun. 

The  proprietress,  Mrs.  Adams,  a  rosy,  dark-haired 
woman,  had  heard  the  Overland  arrive  and  depart. 
Through  habit  she  listened  until  the  distant  rumble 
of  the  train  diminished  to  a  faint  purr.  No  guests  had 
arrived  on  the  Overland.  Stacey  was  not  much  of 
a  town,  and  tourists  seldom  stopped  there.  Mrs. 
Adams  stepped  from  the  small  office  to  the  dining- 
room  and  arranged  some  flowers  in  the  center  of  the 
long  table.  She  happened  to  be  the  only  woman  in 
the  desert  town  who  grew  flowers. 

The  Overland  had  come  and  gone.  Another  day! 
Mrs.  Adams  sighed,  patted  her  smooth  black  hair, 
and  glanced  down  at  her  simple  and  neat  attire. 

She  rearranged  the  flowers,  and  was  stepping  back 
to  view  the  effect  when  something  caused  her  to  turn 
and  glance  toward  the  office.  There  had  been  no 
sound,  yet  in  the  doorway  stood  a  man  —  evidently 
a  rider.  He  was  looking  at  the  calendar  on  the  office 

68 


The  Return  of  Waring 

wall.  Mrs.  Adams  stepped  toward  him.  The-  man 
turned  and  smiled.  She  gazed  with  awakening  as- 
tonishment at  the  dusty,  khaki-clad  figure,  the  cool 
gray  eyes  beneath  the  high-crowned  sombrero,  and 
last  at  the  extended  hand.  Without  meeting  the 
man's  eyes,  she  shook  hands. 

"Jim!  How  did  you  know?"  she  queried,  her  voice 
trembling. 

"I  heard  of  you  at  Nogales.  I  was  n't  looking  for 
you  —  then.  You  have  a  right  pleasant  place  here. 
Yours?" 

She  nodded. 

"I  came  to  see  the  boy,"  he  said.  "I'm  not  here 
for  long." 

"Oh,  Jim!  Lorry  is  so  big  and  strong  —  and  — 
and  he's  working  for  the  Starr  outfit  over  west  of 
here." 

"Cattle,  eh?  Is  he  a  good  boy?" 

"A  nice  question  for  you  to  ask!  Lorry  rides  a 
straighter  trail  than  his  father  did." 

The  man  laughed  and  patted  her  shoulder  affec- 
tionately. "You  need  n't  have  said  that,  Annie.  You 
knew  what  I  was  when  I  married  you.  And  no  man 
ever  said  I  was  n't  straight.  Just  what  made  you 
leave  Sonora  without  saying  a  word?  Did  n't  I  al- 
ways treat  you  well?" 

"I  must  say  that  you  did,  Jim.  You  never  spoke 
a  rough  word  to  me  in  your  life.  I  wish  you  had. 
You'd  be  away  for  weeks,  and  then  come  back  and 

69 


Tang  of  Life 

tell  me  it  was  all  right,  which  meant  that  you'd  'got 
your  man,'  as  they  say  down  there.  At  first  I  was  too 
happy  to  care.  And  when  the  baby  came  and  I  tried 
to  get  you  to  give  up  hiring  out  to  men  who  wanted 
killing  done,  —  for  that's  what  it  was,  —  you  kept 
telling  me  that  some  day  you  would  quit.  Maybe 
they  did  pay  big,  but  you  could  have  been  anything 
else  you  wanted  to.  You  came  of  good  folks  and  had 
education.  But  you  could  n't  live  happy  without 
that  excitement.  And  you  thought  I  was  happy  be- 
cause you  were.  Why,  even  up  here  in  Arizona  they 
sing  'Waring  of  Sonora-Town.'  Our  boy  sings  it,  and 
I  have  to  listen,  knowing  that  it  is  you  he  sings  about. 
I  was  afraid  of  you,  Jim,  and  afraid  our  boy  would 
grow  up  to  be  like  you." 

Waring  nodded.  "I'm  not  blaming  you,  Annie. 
I  asked  why  you  left  me  —  without  a  word  or  an 
address.  Do  you  think  that  was  square?" 

Mrs.  Adams  flushed,  and  the  tears  came  to  her 
eyes.  "I  did  n't  dare  think  about  that  part  of  it.  I 
was  afraid  of  you.  I  got  so  I  could  n't  sleep,  wor- 
rying about  what  might  happen  to  you  when  you 
were  away.  And  you  always  came  back,  but  you 
never  said  where  you'd  been  or  what  you'd  done. 
I  could  n't  stand  it.  If  you  had  only  told  me  — 
even  about  the  men  —  that  you  were  paid  to  kill, 
I  might  have  stood  it.  But  you  never  said  a  word. 
The  wives  of  the  American  folks  down  there  would  n't 
speak  to  me.  And  the  Mexican  women  hated  me.  I 

70 


The  Return  of  Waring 

was  the  wife  of  Jim  Waring,  'the  killer.'  I  think 
I  went  crazy." 

"Well,  I  never  did  believe  in  talking  shop,  Annie." 

"That's  just  it.  You  were  always  polite  —  and 
calling  what  you  did, '  shop ' !  I  don't  believe  you  ever 
cared  for  a  single  person  on  this  earth!" 

"You  ought  to  know,  Annie.  But  we  won't  argue 
that.  Don't  act  as  though  you  had  to  defend  yourself. 
I  am  not  blaming  you  —  now.  You  have  explained. 
I  did  miss  the  boy,  though.  Are  you  doing  well 
here?" 

"It  was  hard  work  at  first.  But  I  never  did  write 
to  father  to  help  me." 

"You  might  have  written  to  me.  When  did  the 
boy  go  to  work?  He's  eighteen,  is  n't  he?" 

Mrs.  Adams  smiled  despite  herself.  "Yes,  this  fall. 
He  started  in  with  the  Starr  people  at  the  spring 
round-up." 

"Could  n't  he  help  you  here?" 

"He  did.  But  he's  not  the  kind  to  hang  round  a 
hotel.  He's  all  man  —  if  I  do  say  it."  And  Mrs. 
Adams  glanced  at  her  husband.  In  his  lithe,  well- 
set-up  figure  she  saw  what  her  son  would  be  at  forty. 
"Yes,  Jim,  he's  man  size  —  and  I've  raised  him  to 
go  straight." 

Waring  laughed.  "Of  course  you  have!  What 
name  will  I  sign,  Annie?" 

"Folks  here  call  me  Mrs.  Adams." 

"So  vou're  Annie  Adams  a^ain!  Wpll.  Tipre's  vmir 

71 


Tang  of  Life 

husband's  name,  if  you  don't  mind."  And  he  signed 
the  register,  "James  Waring,  Sonora,  Mexico." 

"Is  n't  that  risky?"  she  queried. 

"No  one  knows  me  up  here.  And  I  don't  intend 
to  stay  long.  I'd  like  to  see  the  boy." 

"Jim,  you  won't  take  him  away!" 

"You  know  me  better  than  that.  You  quit  me 
down  there,  and  I  won't  say  that  I  liked  it.  I  won- 
dered how  you  'd  get  along.  You  left  no  word.  When 
I  realized  that  you  must  have  wanted  to  leave  me, 
that  settled  it.  Following  you  would  have  done  no 
good,  even  if  I  had  known  where  you  had  gone.  I  was 
free.  And  a  gunman  has  no  business  with  a  family." 

"You  might  have  thought  about  that  before  you 
came  courting  me." 

"I  did.  Did  n't  you?" 

"You're  hard,  Jim.  I  was  just  a  girl.  Any  woman 
would  have  been  glad  to  marry  you  then.  But  when 
I  got  sense  enough  to  see  how  you  earned  your  money 
—  I  just  had  to  leave.  I  was  afraid  to  tell  you  — " 

"There,  now,  Annie;  we'll  let  that  go.  I  won't  say 
that  I  don't  care,  but  I've  been  mighty  busy  since 
you  left.  I  did  n't  know  where  you  were  until  I  hit 
Nogales.  I  wanted  to  see  you  and  the  boy.  And  I  'm 
as  hungry  as  a  grizzly." 

"Anita  is  getting  supper.  Some  of  the  folks  in 
town  board  here.  They'll  be  coming  in  soon." 

"All  right.  I'm  a  stranger.  I  rode  over.  I'd  like 
to  wash  up." 

72 


The  Return  of  Waring 

"You  rode  over?" 

"Yes.  Why  not?  I  know  the  country." 

Mrs.  Adams  turned  and  gestured  toward  the  stair- 
way. She  followed  him  and  showed  him  to  a  room. 
So  he  had  n't  come  in  on  the  Overland,  but  had  ridden 
up  from  Sonora.  Why  had  he  undertaken  such  a  long, 
weary  ride?  Surely  he  could  have  taken  the  train! 
She  had  never  known  him  to  be  without  money.  But 
he  had  always  been  unaccountable,  coming  and  going 
when  he  pleased,  saying  little,  always  serene.  And 
now  he  had  not  said  why  he  had  ridden  up  from 
Sonora.  "Why  not?"  was  all  that  he  had  said  in 
explanation. 

He  swung  out  of  his  coat  and  washed  vigorously, 
thrusting  his  fingers  through  his  short,  curly  hair  and 
shaking  his  head  in  boyish  enjoyment  that  was  re- 
freshing to  watch.  She  noticed  that  he  had  not  aged 
much.  He  seemed  too  cool,  too  self-possessed  always, 
to  show  even  the  ordinary  trace  of  years.  She  could 
not  understand  him;  yet  she  was  surprised  by  a  glow 
of  affection  for  him  now  that  he  had  returned.  As  he 
dried  his  head  she  saw  that  his  hair  was  tinged  with 
gray,  although  his  face  was  lined  but  little  and  his 
gray  eyes  were  as  keen  and  quick  as  ever.  If  he  had 
only  shared  even  that  part  of  his  life  with  her  —  down 
there! 

"Jim!"  she  whispered. 

He  turned  as  he  took  up  his  coat.   "Yes,  Annie?" 

"If  you  would  only  promise — " 

73 


Tang  of  Life 

He  shook  his  head.  "I  won't  do  that.  I  didn't 
come  to  ask  anything  of  you  except  to  see  the  boy 
But  if  you  need  money  — " 

"No.  Not  that  kind  of  money." 

"All  right,  girl."  And  his  voice  was  cheery.  "I 
did  n't  come  here  to  make  you  feel  bad.  And  I  won't 
be  here  long.  Can't  we  be  friends  while  I'm  here?  Of 
course  the  boy  will  know.  But  no  one  else  need  know. 
And  —  you  better  see  to  the  folks  downstairs.  Some 
one  just  came  in." 

She  turned  and  walked  down  the  hall,  wondering 
if  he  had  ever  cared  for  her,  and  wondering  if  her  boy, 
Lorry,  would  ever  come  to  possess  that  almost  un- 
human  quality  of  intense  alertness,  that  incompre- 
hensible coolness  that  never  allowed  him  to  forget 
what  he  was  for  an  instant. 

When  Waring  came  down  she  did  not  introduce 
him  to  the  boarders,  a  fact  that  sheriff  Buck  Hardy, 
who  dined  at  the  hotel,  noted  with  some  interest.  The 
men  ate  hastily,  rose,  and  departed,  leaving  Hardy 
and  Waring,  who  called  for  a  second  cup  of  coffee 
and  rolled  a  cigarette  while  waiting. 

Hardy  had  seen  the  stranger  ride  into  town  on  the 
big  buckskin.  The  horse  bore  a  Mexican  brand.  The 
hotel  register  told  Hardy  who  the  stranger  was.  And 
the  sheriff  of  Stacey  County  was  curious  to  know  just 
what  the  Sonora  gunman  was  doing  in  town. 

Waring  sat  with  his  unlighted  cigarette  between 
fris  fingers.  The  sheriff  proffered  a  match.  Their  eyes 

74 


The  Return  of  Waring 

met.  Waring  nodded  his  thanks  and  blew  a  smoke- 
ring. 

"How  are  things  down  in  Sonora?"  queried  Hard^ 

"Quiet." 

Mrs.  Adams  questioned  Waring  with  her  eyes.  He 
nodded.  "This  is  Mr.  Waring,"  she  said,  rising. 
"This  is  Mr.  Hardy,  our  sheriff." 

The  men  shook  hands.  "Mrs.  Adams  is  a  good 
cook,"  said  Waring. 

A  clatter  of  hoofs  and  the  sound  of  a  cheery  voice 
broke  the  silence. 

A  young  cowboy  jingled  into  the  room.  "Hello, 
Buck!  Hello,  mother!"  And  Lorry  Adams  strode 
up  and  kissed  his  mother  heartily.  "Got  a  runnin' 
chance  to  come  to  town  and  I  came  —  runnin'. 
How's  everything?" 

Mrs.  Adams  murmured  a  reply.  Buck  Hardy  was 
watching  Waring  as  he  glanced  up  at  the  boy.  The 
sheriff  pulled  a  cigar  from  his  vest  and  lighted  it.  In 
the  street  he  paused  in  his  stride,  gazing  at  the  end  of 
his  cigar.  Lorry  Adams  looked  mighty  like  Jim  War- 
ing, of  Sonora.  Hardy  had  heard  that  Waring  had 
been  killed  down  in  the  southern  country.  Some  one 
had  made  a  mistake. 

Waring  had  risen.  He  stood  with  one  hand  touch- 
ing the  table,  the  tips  of  his  fingers  drumming  the 
rhythm  of  a  song  he  hummed  to  himself.  The  boy's 
back  was  toward  him.  Waring's  gaze  traveled  from 
his  son's  head  to  his  boot-heel. 

75 


Tang  of  Life 

Lorry  noticed  that  his  mother  seemed  perturbed. 
He  turned  to  Waring  with  a  questioning  challenge  in 
his  gray  eyes. 

Mrs.  Adams  touched  the  boy's  arm.  "This  is  your 
father,  Lorry." 

Lorry  glanced  from  one  to  the  other. 

Waring  made  no  movement,  offered  no  greeting, 
but  stood  politely  impassive. 

Mrs.  Adams  spoke  gently:  "Lorry!" 

"Why,  hello,  dad! "  And  the  boy  shook  hands  with 
his  father. 

Waring  gestured  toward  a  chair.  Lorry  sat  down. 
His  eyes  were  warm  with  mild  astonishment. 

"Smoke?"  said  Waring,  proffering  tobacco  and 
papers. 

Lorry's  gaze  never  left  his  father's  face  as  he  rolled 
a  cigarette  and  lighted  it.  Mrs.  Adams  realized  that 
Waring's  attitude  of  cool  indifference  appealed  to  the 
boy. 

Lorry  remembered  his  father  dimly.  He  was  curi- 
ous to  know  just  what  kind  of  man  he  was.  He  did  n't 
talk  much;  that  was  certain.  The  boy  remembered 
that  his  mother  had  not  said  much  about  her  hus- 
band, answering  Lorry's  childish  questionings  with 
a  promise  to  tell  him  some  day.  He  recalled  a  long 
journey  on  the  train,  their  arrival  at  Stacey,  and  the 
taking  over  of  the  run-down  hotel  that  his  mother  had 
refurnished  and  made  a  place  of  neatness  and  com- 
fort. And  his  mother  had  told  him  that  she  would  be 

76 


The  Return  of  Waring 

known  as  "Mrs.  Adams."  Lorry  had  been  so  filled 
with  the  newness  of  things  that  the  changing  of  their 
name  was  accepted  without  question.  Slowly  his 
recollection  of  Sonora  and  the  details  of  their  life 
there  came  back  to  him.  These  things  he  had  all  but 
forgotten,  as  he  had  grown  to  love  Arizona,  its  men, 
its  horses,  its  wide  ranges  and  magic  hills. 

Mrs.  Adams  remembered  that  her  husband  had 
once  told  her  he  could  find  out  more  about  a  man  by 
watching  his  hands  than  by  asking  questions.  She 
noticed  that  Waring  was  watching  his  son's  hands 
with  that  old,  deliberate  coldness  of  attitude.  He  was 
trying  to  find  out  just  what  sort  of  a  man  his  boy  had 
grown  to  be. 

Lorry  suddenly  straightened  in  his  chair.  Mrs. 
Adams,  anticipating  his  question,  nodded  to  Waring. 

"Yes,"  said  Waring;  "I  am  the  Waring  of  Sonora 
that  you  are  thinking  about." 

Lorry  flushed.  "I  —  I  guess  you  are,"  he  stam- 
mered. "Mother,  you  never  told  me  that." 

"You  were  too  young  to  understand,  Lorry." 

"And  is  that  why  you  left  him?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  maybe  you  were  right.  But  dad  sure  looks 
like  a  pretty  decent  hombre  to  me." 

They  laughed  in  a  kind  of  relief.  The  occasion  had 
seemed  rather  strained. 

"Ask  your  mother,  Lorry.  I  am  out  of  it."  And, 
rising,  Waring  strode  to  the  doorway. 

77 


Tang  of  Life 

Lorry  rose. 

"I'll  see  you  again,"  said  Waring.  And  he  stepped 
to  the  street,  humming  his  song  of  "Sonora  and  the 
Silver  Strings." 

Mrs.  Adams  put  her  arm  about  her  son's  shoul- 
ders. "Your  father  is  a  hard  man,"  she  told  him. 

"Was  he  mean  to  you,  mother?" 

"No  — never  that." 

"Well,  I  don't  understand  it.  He  looks  like  a 
real  man  to  me.  Why  did  he  come  back?" 

"He  said  he  came  back  to  see  you." 

"Well,  he's  my  father,  anyway,"  said  Lorry. 


Chapter  VIII 

Lorry 

IN  the  low  hills  west  of  Stacey,  Lorry  was  look- 
ing for  strays.  He  worked  alone,  whistling  as 
he  rode,  swinging  his  glasses  on  this  and  that 
arroyo  and  singling  out  the  infrequent  clumps  of 
greasewood  for  a  touch  of  brighter  color  in  their 
shadows.  He  urged  his  pony  from  crest  to  crest, 
carelessly  easy  in  the  saddle,  alive  to  his  work,  and 
quietly  happy  in  the  lone  freedom  of  thought  and 
action. 

He  felt  a  bit  proud  of  himself  that  morning.  Only 
last  night  he  had  learned  that  he  was  the  son  of 
Waring  of  Sonora;  a  name  to  live  up  to,  if  Western 
standards  meant  anything,  and  he  thought  they  did. 

The  fact  that  he  was  the  son  of  James  Waring 
overcame  for  the  time  being  the  vague  disquietude 
of  mind  attending  his  knowledge  that  his  mother  and 
father  had  become  estranged.  He  thought  he  under- 
stood now  why  his  mother  had  made  him  promise 
to  go  unarmed  upon  the  range.  His  companions,  to 
the  last  man,  "packed  a  gun." 

Heretofore  their  joshing  had  not  bothered  him. 
In  fact,  he  had  rather  enjoyed  the  distinction  of  go- 
ing unarmed,  and  he  had  added  to  this  distinction  by 
acquiring  a  skill  with  the  rope  that  occasioned  much 

79 


Tang  of  Life 

natural  jealousy  among  his  fellows.  To  be  tophand 
with  a  rope  among  such  men  as  Blaze  Andrews,  Slim 
Trivet,  Red  Bender,  and  High-Chin  Bob,  the  fore- 
man, was  worth  all  the  patient  hours  he  had  given 
to  persistent  practice  with  the  reata. 

But  to-day  he  questioned  himself.  His  mother 
had  made  him  promise  to  go  unarmed  because  she 
feared  he  would  become  like  his  father.  Why  had 
n't  she  told  him  more  about  it  all?  He  felt  that  she 
had  taken  a  kind  of  mean  advantage  of  his  unwav- 
ering affection  for  her.  He  was  a  man,  so  far  as 
earning  his  wage  was  concerned.  And  she  was  the 
best  woman  in  the  world  —  but  then  women  did  n't 
understand  the  unwritten  customs  of  the  range. 

On  a  sandy  ridge  he  reined  up  and  gazed  at  the 
desert  below.  The  bleak  flats  wavered  in  the  white 
light  of  noon.  The  farthest  hills  to  the  south  seemed 
but  a  few  miles  away. 

For  some  time  he  focused  his  gaze  at  the  Notch, 
from  which  the  road  sprang  and  flowed  in  slow  un- 
dulations to  a  vanishing  point  in  the  blank  spaces 
of  the  west.  His  pony,  Gray  Leg,  head  up  and  nos- 
trils working,  twitched  back  one  ear  as  Lorry  spoke: 
"You  see  it,  too?" 

Gray  Leg  continued  to  gaze  into  the  distance, 
occasionally  stamping  an  impatient  forefoot,  as 
though  anxious  to  be  off.  Lorry  lowered  his  glass 
and  raised  it  again.  In  the  circle  of  the  binoculars 
he  saw  a  tiny,  distant  figure  dismount  from  a  black 

80 


Lorry 

horse  and  walk  back  and  forth  across  the  road  directly 
below  the  Notch.  Lorry  wiped  his  glasses  and  cen- 
tered them  on  the  Notch  again.  The  horseman  had 
led  his  horse  to  a  clump  of  brush.  Presently  the 
twinkling  front  of  an  automobile  appeared  —  a 
miniature  machine  that  wormed  slowly  through 
the  Notch  and  descended  the  short  pitch  beyond. 
Suddenly  the  car  swerved  and  stopped.  Lorry  saw 
a  flutter  of  white  near  the  machine.  Then  the  con- 
cealed horseman  appeared  on  foot.  Lorry  slipped 
the  glass  in  his  shirt. 

"We'll  just  mosey  over  and  get  a  closer  look," 
he  told  his  pony.  "Things  don't  look  just  right  over 
there." 

Gray  Leg,  scenting  a  new  interest,  tucked  him- 
self together.  The  sand  sprayed  to  little  puffs  of 
dust  as  he  swung  to  a  lope. 

Lorry  was  curious  —  and  a  bit  elated  at  the  prom- 
ise of  a  break  in  the  monotony  of  hunting  stray 
cattle.  Probably  some  Eastern  tourist  had  taken 
the  grade  below  the  Notch  too  fast  and  ditched  his 
machine.  Lorry  would  ride  over  and  help  him  to 
right  the  car  and  set  the  pilgrim  on  his  way  rejoic- 
ing. He  had  helped  to  right  cars  before.  Last  month, 
for  instance;  that  big  car  with  the  uniformed  driver 
and  the  wonderfully  gowned  women.  He  recalled 
the  fact  that  one  of  them  had  been  absolutely  beau- 
tiful, despite  her  strange  mufflings.  She  had  offered 
to  pay  him  for  his  trouble.  When  he  refused  she  had 

81 


Tang  of  Life 

thanked  him  eloquently  with  her  fine  eyes  and 
thrown  him  a  kiss  as  he  turned  to  go.  She  had 
thrown  that  kiss  with  two  hands!  There  was  noth- 
ing stingy  about  that  lady! 

But  possibly  the  machine  toward  which  he  rode 
carried  nothing  more  interesting  than  men;  fat,  well- 
dressed  men  who  smoked  fat  cigars  and  had  much 
to  say  about  "high"  and  "low,"  but  didn't  seem 
to  know  a  great  deal  about  "Jack"  and  "The 
Game."  If  they  offered  to  pay  him  for  helping  them 
—  well,  that  was  a  different  matter. 

The  pony  loped  toward  the  Notch,  quite  as  eager 
as  his  rider  to  attend  a  performance  that  promised 
action.  Within  a  half-mile  of  the  Notch,  Lorry 
pulled  the  pony  to  a  walk.  Just  beyond  the  car  he 
had  seen  the  head  and  ears  of  a  horse.  The  rider  was 
afoot,  talking  to  the  folks  in  the  car.  This  did  n't 
look  quite  right. 

He  worked  his  pony  through  the  shoulder-high 
brush  until  within  a  few  yards  of  the  other  man, 
who  was  evidently  unwelcome.  One  of  the  two 
women  stood  in  front  of  the  other  as  though  to 
shield  her. 

Lorry  took  down  his  rope  just  as  the  younger  of 
the  two  women  saw  his  head  above  the  brush.  The 
strange  horseman,  noting  her  expression,  turned 
quickly.  Lorry's  pony  jumped  at  the  thrust  of  the 
spurs.  The  rope  circled  like  a  swallow  and  settled 
lightly  on  the  man's  shoulders.  The  pony  wheeled. 

82 


Lorry 

The  blunt  report  of  a  gun  punctured  the  silence, 
followed  by  the  long-drawn  ripping  of  brush  and 
the  snorting  of  the  pony. 

The  man  was  dragging  and  clutching  at  the  brush. 
He  had  dropped  his  gun.  Lorry  dug  the  spurs  into 
Gray  Leg.  The  rope  came  taut  with  a  jerk.  The 
man  rolled  over,  his  hands  snatching  at  the  noose 
about  his  neck.  Lorry  dismounted  and  ran  to  him. 
He  eased  the  loop,  and  swiftly  slipped  it  over  the 
man's  feet. 

Gray  Leg,  who  knew  how  to  keep  a  rope  taut 
better  than  anything  else,  slowly  circled  the  fallen 
man.  Lorry  picked  up  the  gun  and  strode  over  to 
the  car.  One  of  the  women  was  crouching  on  the 
running-board.  In  front  of  her,  pale,  straight,  stiffly 
indignant,  stood  a  young  woman  whose  eyes  chal- 
lenged Lorry's  approach. 

"It's  all  right,  miss.  He  won't  bother  you  now." 

"Is  he  dead?"  queried  the  girl. 

"I  reckon  not." 

"I  heard  a  shot.  I  thought  you  killed  him." 

"No,  ma'am.  He  took  a  crack  at  me.  I  don't 
pack  a  gun." 

"You're  a  cowboy?"  And  the  girl  laughed  nerv- 
ously, despite  her  effort  to  hold  herself  together. 

"I  aim  to  be,"  said  Lorry,  a  trifle  brusquely. 

The  elder  woman  peered  through  her  fingers. 
"Another  one!"  she  moaned. 

"  No,  mother.  This  one  is  a  cowboy.  It 's  all  right/' 

83 


Tang  of  Life 


"It  sure  is.  What  was  his  game?" 

"He  told  us  to  give  him  our  money." 

"Uh-uh.    This  is  the  second  holdup  here  at  the 

Notch  this  summer." 

"He's  trying  to  get  up!"  exclaimed  the  girl. 

"My  hoss'll  take  care  of  him." 

"But  your  horse  might  drag  him  to  death." 

"Well,  it's  his  own  funeral,  ain't  it?" 

The  girl's  eyes  grew  big.    She  stepped  back.    If 

she  had  only  said  something  Lorry  would  have  felt 

better.  As  it  was  he  felt  decidedly  uncomfortable. 
"If  you'll  say  what  is  right,  ma'am,  I'll  do  it. 

You  want  me  to  turn  him  loose?" 

"I  —  No.  But  can't  you  do  something  for  him?" 
Lorry  laughed.    "I  reckon  you  don't  sabe  them 

kind,  miss.    And  mebby  you  want  to  get  that  car 

on  the  road  again." 

"Yes,"   said   the  girl's  mother.     "I   think  this 

young  man  knows  what  he  is  about." 
Lorry  stepped  to  the  car  to  examine  it. 
The  girl  followed  him.    "I  think  there  is  nothing 

broken.  We  just  turned  to  come  down  that  hill.  We 

were  coasting  when  I  saw  a  rope  stretched  across 

the  road.  I  did  n't  know  what  to  do.  I  tried  to  stop. 

We  slid  off  the  edge." 

"Uh-uh.    He  had  it  all  ribbed  up  to  stop  you. 

Now  if  you  had  kept  on  goin'  — " 

"But  I  did  n't  know  what  the  rope  meant.   I  was 

frightened.   And  before  I  knew  what  had  happened 

M 


Lorry 

he  stepped  right  on  the  running-board  and  told  us 
to  give  him  our  money." 

"Yes,  ma'am.  If  you  can  start  her  up,  I'll  get 
my  rope  on  the  axle  and  help." 

"But  the  man  might  get  up!"  said  the  girl. 

Lorry  grinned.  A  minute  or  two  ago  she  had  been 
afraid  that  the  man  would  n't  get  up.  Lorry  slipped 
the  rope  from  the  man's  ankles  and  tied  it  to  the 
front  axle.  The  girl  got  in  the  car.  The  pony  buckled 
to  his  work.  The  machine  stuttered  and  purred. 
With  a  lurch  it  swung  back  into  the  road.  The  girl's 
mother  rose,  brushed  her  skirt,  and  stepped  to  the 
car.  Lorry  unfastened  the  rope  and  reined  to  one  side. 

The  car  steered  badly.  The  girl  stopped  it  and 
beckoned  to  Lorry. 

"There's  something  wrong  with  the  steering- 
gear.  Are  the  roads  good  from  here  to  the  next 
town?" 

"Not  too  good.  There's  some  heavy  sand  about 
a  mile  west." 

She  bit  her  lip.  "Well,  I  suppose  we'll  have  to 
turn  back." 

"You  could  get  to  Stacey,  ma'am.  You  could  get 
your  car  fixed,  and  my  mother  runs  the  hotel  there. 
It's  a  good  place  to  stop." 

"How  far?" 

"About  eight  miles.  Three  miles  back  the  road 
forks  and  the  left-hand  road  goes  to  town.  The  regu- 
lar automobile  road  don't  go  to  Stacey." 

85 


Tang  of  Life 

"Well,  I  suppose  there  is  nothing  else  to  do.  I'll 
try  and  turn  around."  And  the  girl  backed  the  car 
and  swung  round  in  a  wavering  arc.  When  the  car 
faced  the  east  she  stopped  it. 

Lorry  rode  alongside.  She  thanked  him  for  his 
services.  "And  please  don't  do  anything  to  that 
man,"  she  pleaded.  "He  has  been  punished  enough. 
You  almost  killed  him.  He  looked  so  wretched. 
Can't  you  give  him  a  good  talking  to  and  let  him 
go?" 

"I  could,  ma'am.  But  it  ain't  right.  He'll  try 
this  here  stunt  again.  There's  a  reward  out  for 
him." 

"But  won't  you  —  please!" 

Lorry  flushed.  "You  got  a  good  heart  all  right, 
but  you  ain't  been  long  in  the  West.  Such  as  him 
steals  hosses  and  holds  up  folks  and  robs  trains  — " 

"But  you're  not  an  officer,"  she  said,  somewhat 
unkindly. 

"  I  reckon  any  man  is  an  officer  when  wimmin- 
folk  is  gettin'  robbed.  And  I  aim  to  put  him  where 
he  belongs." 

"Thank  you  for  helping  us,"  said  the  girl's 
mother. 

"You're  right  welcome,  ma'am."  And,  raising 
his  hat,  Lorry  turned  and  rode  to  where  the  man  lay. 

The  car  crept  up  the  slope.  Lorry  watched  it 
until  it  had  topped  the  ridge.  Then  he  dismounted 
and  turned  the  man  over. 

86 


Lorry 

you 


•     m-*~r  *  «•    J 

"What  you  got  to  say   about   my  turnin' 
loose?"  he  queried  as  the  other  sat  up. 

"NothinV 

"All  right.   Get  a  movin'  —  and  don't  try  to  run, 
I  got  my  rope  handy." 


Chapter  IX 
High-Chin  Bob 

THE  man's  rusty  black  coat  was  torn  and 
wrinkled.  His  cheap  cotton  shirt  was 
faded  and  buttonless.  His  boots  were  split 
at  the  sole,  showing  part  of  a  bare  foot.  He  was 
grimy,  unshaven,  and  puffed  unhealthily  beneath 
the  eyes.  Lorry  knew  that  he  was  but  an  indifferent 
rider  without  seeing  him  on  a  horse.  He  was  a  typi- 
cal railroad  tramp,  turned  highwayman. 

"Got  another  gun  on  you?"  queried  Lorry. 

The  man  shook  his  head. 

" Where 'd  you  steal  that  horse?" 

"Who  says  I  stole  him?" 

"I  do.  He's  a  Starr  horse.  He  was  turned  out  ac- 
count of  goin'  lame.  Hop  along.  I  '11  take  care  of  him." 

The  man  plodded  across  the  sand.  Lorry  fol- 
lowed on  Gray  Leg,  and  led  the  other  horse.  Flares 
of  noon  heat  shot  up  from  the  reddish-gray  levels. 
Lorry  whistled,  outwardly  serene,  but  inwardly  per- 
turbed. That  girl  had  asked  him  to  let  the  man  go 
and  she  had  said  "please."  But,  like  all  women,  she 
did  n't  understand  such  things. 

They  approached  a  low  ridge  and  worked  up  a 
winding  cattle  trail.  On  the  crest  Lorry  reined  up. 
The  man  sat  down,  breathing  heavily. 

88 


High-Chin  Bob 

"What  you  callin'  yourself?"  asked  Lorry. 

"A  dam'  fool." 

"I  knew  that.  Anything  else? " 

"Waco  — mebby." 

"Waco,  eh?  Well,  that's  an  insult  to  Texas. 
What's  your  idea  in  holdin'  up  wimmin-folk,  any- 
how?" 

"Mebby  you'd  hold  up  anybody  if  you  hadn't 
at  since  yesterday  morning." 

"Think  I  believe  that?" 

"Suit  yourself.  You  got  me  down." 

"Well,  you  can  get  up  and  get  movin'." 

The  man  rose.  He  shuffled  forward,  limping 
heavily.  Occasionally  he  stopped  and  turned  to 
meet  a  level  gaze  that  was  impersonal;  that  prom- 
ised nothing.  Lorry  would  have  liked  to  let  the 
other  ride.  The  man  was  suffering  —  and  to  ride 
would  save  time.  But  the  black,  a  rangy,  quick- 
stepping  animal,  was  faster  than  Gray  Leg.  But 
what  if  the  man  did  escape?  No  one  need  know 
about  it.  Yet  Lorry  knew  that  he  was  doing  right 
in  arresting  him.  In  fact,  he  felt  a  kind  of  secret 
pride  in  making  the  capture.  It  would  give  him  a 
name  among  his  fellows..  But  was  there  any  glory 
in  arresting  such  a  man? 

Lorry  recalled  the  other's  wild  shot  as  he  was 
whirled  through  the  brush.  "He  sure  tried  to  get 
me!"  Lorry  argued.  "And  any  man  that  'd  hold 
up  wimmin  ought  to  be  in  the  calaboose — " 

89 


Tang  of  Life 

The  trail  meandered  down  the  hillside  and  out 
across  a  barren  flat.  Halfway  across  the  flat  the 
trail  forked.  Lorry  had  ceased  to  whistle.  At  the 
fork  his  pony  stopped  of  its  own  accord.  The  man 
turned  questioningly.  Lorry  gestured  toward  the 
right-hand  trail.  The  man  staggered  on.  The  horses 
fretted  at  the  slow  pace.  Keen  to  anticipate  some 
trickery,  Lorry  hardened  himself  to  the  other's  con- 
dition. Perhaps  the  man  was  hungry,  sick,  suffering. 
Well,  a  mile  beyond  was  the  water-hole.  The  left- 
hand  trail  led  directly  to  Stacey,  but  there  was  no 
water  along  that  trail. 

They  moved  on  across  a  stretch  of  higher  land  that 
swept  in  a  gentle,  sage-dotted  slope  to  the  far  hills. 
Midway  across  the  slope  was  a  bare  spot  burning 
like  white  fire  in  the  desert  sun.  It  was  the  water- 
hole.  The  trail  became  paralleled  by  other  trails, 
narrow  and  rutted  by  countless  hoofs. 

Within  a  hundred  yards  of  the  water-hole  the 
prisoner  collapsed.  Lorry  dismounted  and  went  for 
water. 

The  man  drank,  and  Lorry  helped  him  up  and 
across  the  sand  to  the  rim  of  the  water-hole.  The 
man  gazed  at  the  shimmering  pool  with  blurred  eyes. 

Lorry  rolled  a  cigarette.    "Roll  one?"  he  queried. 

The  man  Waco  took  the  proffered  tobacco  and 
papers.  His  weariness  seemed  to  vanish  as  he  smoked. 
"That  pill  sure  saved  my  life,"  he  asserted. 

"How  much  you  reckon  your  life's  worth?" 

90 


High-Chin  Bob 

Waco  blew  a  smoke-ring  and  nodded  toward  it  as 
it  dissolved.  Lorry  pondered.  The  keen  edge  of  his 
interest  in  the  capture  had  worn  off,  leaving  a  blunt 
purpose  —  a  duty  that  was  part  of  the  day's  work. 
As  he  realized  how  much  the  other  was  at  his  mercy  a 
tinge  of  sympathy  softened  his  gray  eyes.  Justice  was 
undeniably  a  fine  thing.  Folks  were  entitled  to  the 
pursuit  of  happiness,  to  life  and  liberty  he  had  read 
somewhere.  He  glanced  up.  Waco,  seated  opposite, 
had  drifted  back  into  a  stupor,  head  sunk  forward 
and  arms  relaxed.  The  stub  of  his  cigarette  lay 
smouldering  between  his  feet.  Lorry  thought  of  the 
girl's  appeal. 

"Just  what  started  you  to  workin'  this  holdup 
game?"  he  queried. 

Waco's  head  came  up.  "You  joshin'  me?" 

"Nope." 

"You  would  n't  believe  a  hard-luck  story,  so  what 's 
the  use?" 

"Ain't  any.  I  was  just  askin'  a  question.  Roll 
another?" 

Waco  stuck  out  his  grimy  paw.  His  fingers  trem- 
bled as  he  fumbled  the  tobacco  and  papers. 

Lorry  proffered  a  match.  "It  makes  me  sick  to  see 
a  husky  like  you  all  shot  to  pieces,"  said  Lorry. 

"Did  you  just  get  wise  to  that?" 

"Nope.  But  I  just  took  time  to  say  it." 

Waco  breathed  deep,  inhaling  the  smoke.  "I  been 
crooked  all  my  life,"  he  asserted. 

91 


Tang  of  Life 

"I  can  believe  that.  'Course  you  know  I'm  takin' 
you  to  Stacey." 

"The  left-hand  trail  was  quicker,"  ventured  the 
tramp. 

"And  no  water." 

"I  could  ride,"  suggested  Waco. 

Lorry  shook  his  head.  "  If  you  was  to  make  a  break 
I'd  just  nacherally  plug  you.  I  got  your  gun.  You're 
safer  afoot." 

"I'll  promise—" 

"Nope.  You'retoowillin'." 

"I'm  all  in,"  said  Waco. 

"I  got  to  take  you  to  Stacey  just  the  same." 

"And  you're  doin'  it  for  the  money  — the  re- 
ward." 

"That's  my  business." 

"Go  ahead,"  said  the  tramp.  "I  hope  you  have  a 
good  time  blowin'  in  the  dough.  Blood-money 
changes  easy  to  booze-money  when  a  lot  of  cow- 
chasers  get  their  hooks  on  it." 

"Don't  get  gay!"  said  Lorry.  "I  aim  to  use  you 
white  as  long  as  you  work  gentle.  If  you  don't  — " 

"That's  the  way  with  you  guys  that  do  nothin' 
but  chase  a  cow's  tail  over  the  country.  You  handle 
folks  the  same  as  stock  —  rough  stuff  and  to  hell  with 
their  feelin's." 

"You're  feelin'  better,"  said  Lorry.  "Stand  up 
and  get  to  goin'." 

As  Waco  rose,  Lorry's  pony  nickered.  A  rider  was 

92 


High-Chin  Bob 

coming  down  the  distant  northern  hillside.  In  the 
fluttering  silken  bandanna  and  the  twinkle  of  silver- 
studded  trappings  Lorry  recognized  the  foreman  of 
the  Starr  Rancho;  Bob  Brewster,  known  for  his  ar- 
rogance as  "High-Chin  Bob." 

"Guess  we'll  wait  a  minute,"  said  Lorry. 

Waco  saw  the  rider,  and  asked  who  he  was. 

"It's  High  Chin,  the  foreman.  You  been  ridin'  one 
of  his  string  of  horses  —  the  black  there." 

"He's  your  boss?" 

'Yes.  And  I'm  right  sorry  he's  ridin'  into  this 
camp.  You  was  talkin'  of  feelin's.  Well,  he  ain't  got 
any." 

Brewster  loped  up  and  dismounted.  "What's 
your  tally,  kid?" 

Lorry  shook  his  head.  "Only  this,"  he  said  jok- 
ingly. 

Brewster  glanced  at  Waco.  "Maverick,  all  right. 
Where 'd  you  rope  him  ?" 

"I  run  onto  him  holdin'  up  some  tourists  down  by 
the  Notch.  I'm  driftin'  him  over  to  Stacey." 

High  Chin's  eyes  narrowed.  "Was  he  ridin'  that 
horse?"  And  he  pointed  to  the  black. 

Lorry  admitted  that  he  had  found  the  horse  tied  in 
the  brush  near  the  Notch. 

High  Chin  swung  round.  "You  fork  your  bronc 
and  get  busy.  There's  eighty  head  and  over  strayin' 
in  here,  and  the  old  man  ain't  payin'  you  to  enter- 
tain hobos.  I'll  herd  this  hombre  to  camp." 

93 


Tang  of  Life 

"He  says  he  ain't  had  a  meal  since  yesterday," 
ventured  Lorry. 

High  gathered  up  the  reins  of  his  horse.  "A  boss- 
thief  ain't  supposed  to  eat.  Hump  yourself,  Willy!" 

Waco  got  to  his  feet,  wavered,  and  sat  down  sud- 
denly. "I'm  all  in,  mister,"  he  whined. 

High  Chin  laughed  and  swung  up  his  arm.  Waco 
sank  down  with  his  hands  to  his  face.  Lorry  bit  his 
lips.  Waco  lowered  his  hands  and  begged  for  mercy. 
Across  his  white  face  ran  a  vivid,  purple  welt  where 
High  Chin's  quirt  had  burned  him.  High  Chin  raised 
his  foot  and  kicked  the  tramp  in  the  ribs. 

Waco  squirmed  in  the  sand.  High  Chin  stood  over 
him,  his  arm  raised. 

Lorry  pushed  his  horse  close  to  the  foreman.  His 
voice  was  almost  musical  as  he  spoke:  — 

"Let  him  up,  High." 

The  foreman's  face  went  blank  with  surprise.  That 
one  of  his  men  —  and  the  kid  of  the  outfit  —  should 
question  his  actions! 

"Let  him  up,  High!" 

High  Chin  swung  his  arm.  Lorry  whipped  out  the 
tramp's  gun  and  swung  it  up.  The  butt  came  down 
on  High  Chin's  sombrero.  The  foreman  gave  at  the 
knees  and  wilted  to  the  ground. 

"You  handled  that  about  right,"  said  a  voice. 

Lorry  turned  to  see  a  quiet  figure  astride  a  big 
buckskin  horse;  a  man  who  sat  easily  in  the  saddle  and 
smiled. 

94 


High-Chin  Bob 

"Why,  hello,  dad!" 

"Get  his  gun,"  said  Waring. 

High-Chin  Bob  lay  where  he  had  fallen,  his  arms 
outflung.  Lorry  dismounted  and  secured  the  gun. 
Waco,  groaning,  staggered  to  his  feet  and  started  to 
walk  away.  . 

"Let  him  go,"  said  Waring.   "He  won't  get  far." 

Lorry  turned  the  foreman  over.  High  Chin  was 
hard  hit,  but  his  heavy  sombrero  had  broken  the  full 
force  of  the  blow.  Lorry  hardly  knew  what  to  do. 
And  Waring  sat  watching,  offering  no  suggestion. 
Presently  the  foreman's  hands  moved.  In  spite  of 
himself,  Lorry  wished  that  he  had  put  less  down- 
right weight  into  the  blow.  High  Chin's  eyelids  flut. 
tered.  He  sat  up.  Slowly  it  came  to  him  that  it  was 
Lorry  and  not  a  stroke  of  lightning  that  had  knocked 
him  out.  His  hand  crept  down  to  his  belt.  Waring 
smiled. 

A  quick  flush  streaked  the  foreman's  white  face. 
He  twisted  round  and  got  to  his  feet.  Lorry  stepped 
back. 

High  Chin  swung  stiffly  to  his  horse.  "Where's 
my  gun?"  he  asked. 

"The  boy's  got  it,"  said  Waring. 

"What  you  got  to  say  about  it?"  snarled  the  fore- 
man. 

"You  asked  for  your  gun." 

High  Chin's  gaze  drifted  past  Waring  to  where 
Waco  had  turned  and  was  coming  back. 

95 


Tang  of  Life 

With  his  arm  outflung  the  tramp  staggered  up  to 
the  foreman.  "I  come  back  —  to  tell  you  —  that 
I  'm  going  to  live  to  get  you  right.  I  got  a  hunch  that 
all  hell  can't  beat  out.  I'll  get  you!" 

"We  won't  have  any  trouble,"  said  Waring. 

High  Chin  whirled  his  horse  round.  "What's  it  to 
you?  Who  are  you,  buttin'  in  on  this?" 

"My  name  is  Waring.   I  used  to  mill  around  So- 


nera once." 


High  Chin  blinked.  He  knew  that  name.  Slowly 
he  realized  that  the  man  on  the  big  buckskin  meant 
what  he  said  when  he  asserted  that  there  would  be 
no  trouble. 

"  Well,  I  'm  foreman  of  the  Starr,  and  you  're  fired ! " 
he  told  Lorry. 

"That's  no  news,"said  Lorry,  grinning. 

"And  I'm  goin'  to  herd  this  hoss-thief  to  camp," 
he  continued,  spurring  toward  Waco,  who  had  started 
to  walk  away. 

"Not  this  journey,"  said  Waring,  pushing  his  horse 
between  them.  "The  boy  don't  pack  a  gun.  I  do." 

"You  talk  big  —  knowin'  I  got  no  gun,"  said  High 
Chin. 

Lorry  rode  over  to  the  foreman.  "  Here 's  your  gun, 
High.  I  ain't  no  killer." 

The  foreman  holstered  the  gun  and  reined  round 
toward  Waring.  "Now  do  your  talkin',"  he  chal- 
lenged. 

Waring  made  no  movement,  but  sat  quietly  watch- 


High-Chin  Bob 

ing  the  other's  gun  hand.  "You  have  your  gun?"  he 
said,  as  though  asking  a  question.  "If  you  mean 
business,  go  ahead.  I'll  let  you  get  your  gun  out — • 
and  then  I'll  get  you  —  and  you  know  it!"  And  witl 
insulting  ease  he  flicked  his  burned-out  cigarette  in 
the  foreman's  face. 

Without  a  word  High  Chin  whirled  his  horse  and 
rode  toward  the  hills. 

Waring  sat  watching  him  until  Lorry  spoke. 

"They  say  he's  put  more  than  one  man  across  the 
divide,"  he  told  his  father. 

"But  not  on  an  even  break,"  said  Waring.  "Get 
that  hombre  on  his  horse.  He's  in  bad  shape." 

Lorry  helped  Waco  to  mount.  They  rode  toward 
Stacey. 

*  Waring  rode  with  them  until  the  trail  forked.  "I 
was  on  my  way  to  the  Starr  Ranch,"  he  told  Lorry. 
"I  think  I  can  make  it  all  right  with  Starr,  if  you  say 
the  word." 

"Not  me,"  said  Lorry.  "I  stand  by  what  I  do." 

Waring  tried  to  conceal  the  smile  that  crept  to  his 
lips.  "All  right,  Lorry.  But  you'll  have  to  explain 
to  your  mother.  Better  turn  your  man  over  to  Buck 
Hardy  as  soon  as  you  get  in  town.  Where  did  you 
pick  him  up?" 

"He  was  holdin'  up  some  tourists  over  by  the  Notch. 
He  changed  his  mind  and  came  along  with  me." 

Waring  rode  down  the  west  fork,  and  Lorry  and 
the  tramp  continued  their  journey  to  Stacey. 


Chapter  X 

East  and  West 

MRS.  ADAMS,  ironing  in  the  kitchen,  was 
startled  by  a  peremptory  ringing  of  the 
bell  on  the  office  desk.  The  Overland  had 
arrived  and  departed  more  than  an  hour  ago.  She 
patted  her  hair,  smoothed  her  apron,  and  stepped 
through  the  dining-room  to  the  office.  A  rather  tired- 
looking,  stylishly  gowned  woman  immediately  asked 
if  there  were  comfortable  accommodations  for  her- 
self and  her  daughter.  Mrs.  Adams  assured  her  that 
there  were. 

"We  had  an  accident,"  continued  the  woman.  "I 
am  Mrs.  Weston.  This  is  my  daughter." 

"You  are  driving  overland?" 

"We  were.  We  have  had  a  terrible  time.  A  man 
tried  to  rob  us,  and  we  almost  wrecked  our  car." 

"Goodness!  Where  did  it  happen?" 

"At  a  place  called  'The  Notch,'  I  think,"  said  Alice 
Weston,  taking  the  pen  Mrs.  Adams  proffered  and 
registering. 

"I  can  give  you  a  front  double  room,"  said  Mrs. 
Adams.  "But  the  single  rooms  are  cooler." 

"Anything  will  do  so  long  as  it  is  clean,"  said  Mrs. 
Weston. 

98 


East  and  West 

Mrs.  Adams's  rosy  face  grew  red.  "My  rooms  are 
always  clean.  I  attend  to  them  myself." 

"And  a  room  with  a  bath  would  be  preferable,'* 
said  Mrs.  Weston. 

Her  daughter  Alice  smiled.  Mrs.  Adams  caught  the 
twinkle  in  the  girl's  eyes  and  smiled  in  return. 

"You  can  have  the  room  next  to  the  bathroom. 
This  is  a  desert  town,  Mrs.  Weston.  We  don't  have 
many  tourists." 

"I  suppose  it  will  have  to  do,"  sighed  Mrs.  Weston. 
"Of  course  we  may  have  the  exclusive  use  of  the 
bath?" 

"Mother,"  said  Alice  Weston,  "you  must  remem- 
ber that  this  is  n't  New  York.  I  think  we  are  fortu- 
nate to  get  a  place  as  comfortable  and  neat  as  this. 
We're  really  in  the  desert.  We  will  see  the  rooms, 
please." 

Mrs.  Weston  could  find  no  fault  with  the  rooms. 
They  were  neat  and  clean,  even  to  the  window-panes. 
Alice  Weston  was  delighted.  From  her  window  she 
could  see  miles  of  the  western  desert,  and  the  far, 
mysterious  ranges  bulked  against  the  blue  of  the 
north;  ranges  that  seemed  to  whisper  of  romance,  the 
unexplored,  the  alluring. 

While  Mrs.  Adams  was  arranging  things,  Alice 
Weston  gazed  out  of  the  window.  Below  in  the  street 
a  cowboy  passed  jauntily.  A  stray  burro  crossed  the 
street  and  nosed  among  some  weeds.  Then  a  stolid 
Indian  stalked  by. 

99 


Tang  of  Life 

"Why,  that  is  a  real  Indian!"  exclaimed  the  girl. 

"A  Navajo,"  said  Mrs.  Adams.  "They  come  in 
quite  often." 

"Really?  And  —  oh,  I  forgot  —  the  young  mat. 
who  rescued  us  told  us  that  he  was  your  son." 

' '  Lorry !  Rescued  you  ? ' ' 

"Yes."  And  the  girl  told  Mrs.  Adams  about  the 
accident  and  the  tramp. 

"I 'm  thankful  that  he  did  n't  get  killed,"  was  Mrs. 
Adams's  comment  when  the  girl  had  finished. 

Alone  in  her  room,  Alice  Weston  bared  her  round 
young  arms  and  enjoyed  a  real,  old-fashioned  wash  in 
a  real,  old-fashioned  washbowl.  Who  could  be  un- 
happy in  this  glorious  country?  But  mother  seemed 
so  unimpressed!  "And  I  hope  that  steering-knuckle 
does  n't  come  for  a  month,"  the  girl  told  a  framed 
lithograph  of  "Custer's  Last  Fight,"  which,  contrary 
to  all  precedent,  was  free  from  fly  specks. 

She  recalled  the  scene  at  the  Notch:  the  sickening 
sway  of  the  car;  the  heavy,  brutal  features  of  the 
bandit,  who  seemed  to  have  risen  from  the  ground; 
the  unexpected  appearance  of  the  young  cowboy,  the 
flash  of  his  rope,  and  a  struggling  form  whirling 
through  the  brush. 

And  she  had  said  "please"  when  she  had  asked  the 
young  cowboy  to  let  the  man  go.  He  had  refused. 
She  thought  Western  men  more  gallant.  But  what 
difference  did  that  make?  She  would  never  see  him 
again.  The  young  cowboy  had  seemed  rather  nice, 

100 


East  and  West:    ,%  ? 

until  just  toward  the  last.  As  for  the  other  man  — 
she  shivered  as  she  wondered  what  would  have  hap 
pened  if  the  cowboy  had  not  arrived  when  he  did. 

It  occurred  to  her  that  she  had  never  been  refused 
a  request  in  her  life  until  that  afternoon.  And  the 
fact  piqued  her.  The  fate  of  the  tramp  was  a  second- 
ary consideration  now.  She  and  her  mother  were 
safe.  The  car  would  have  to  be  repaired;  but  that 
was  unimportant.  The  fact  that  they  were  stranded 
in  a  real  desert  town,  with  Indians  and  cowboys  in 
the  streets,  and  vistas  such  as  she  had  dreamed  of 
shimmering  in  the  afternoon  sun,  awakened  an  erst- 
while slumbering  desire  for  a  draught  of  the  real  Ro- 
mance of  the  West,  heretofore  only  enjoyed  in  un- 
satisfying sips  as  she  read  of  the  West  and  its  wonder 
trails. 

A  noise  in  the  street  attracted  her  attention.  She 
stepped  to  the  window.  Just  across  the  street  a  tall, 
heavy  man  was  unlocking  a  door  in  a  little  adobe 
building.  Near  him  stood  the  young  cowboy  whom 
she  had  not  expected  to  see  again.  And  there  was  the 
tramp,  handcuffed  and  strangely  white  of  face.  The 
door  swung  open,  and  the  tall  man  stepped  back. 
The  tramp  shuffled  through  the  low  doorway,  and  the 
door  was  closed  and  locked.  The  cowboy  and  the  tall 
man  talked  for  a  while.  She  stepped  back  as  the  men 
separated. 

Presently  she  heard  the  cowboy's  voice  downstairs. 
She  flushed,  and  gazed  at  herself  in  the  glass. 

101 


Tang  of  Life 


"I  am  going  to  make  him  sorry  he  refused  to  let 
that  man  go,"  she  told  the  mirror.  "Oh,  I  shall  be 
nice  to  him!  So  nice  that  — "  She  did  not  complete 
the  thought.  She  was  naturally  gracious.  When  she 
set  out  to  be  exceptionally  nice  —  "Oo,  la,  la!"  she 
exclaimed.  "And  he's  nothing  but  a  cowboy!" 

She  heard  Lorry  clump  upstairs  and  enter  a  room 
across  the  hall.  She  knew  it  was  he.  She  could  hear 
the  clink  of  his  spurs  and  the  swish  of  his  chaps. 
While  she  realized  that  he  was  Mrs.  Adams's  son  and 
had  a  right  to  be  there,  she  rather  resented  his  prox- 
imity, possibly  because  she  had  not  expected  to  see 
him  again. 

She  had  no  idea  that  he  had  been  discharged  by 
his  foreman,  nor  that  he  had  earned  the  disapproval 
of  his  mother  for  having  quarreled.  Of  course  he  had 
ridden  to  Stacey  to  bring  the  prisoner  in,  but  he  knew 
they  were  in  Stacey,  and  Alice  Weston  liked  to  be- 
lieve that  he  would  make  excuse  to  stay  in  town  while 
they  were  there.  It  would  be  fun  —  for  her. 

After  supper  that  evening  Mrs.  Weston  and  Alice 
were  introduced  to  Waring,  who  came  in  late.  War- 
ing chatted  with  Mrs.  Weston  out  on  the  veranda  in 
the  cool  of  the  evening.  Alice  was  surprised  that  her 
mother  seemed  interested  in  Waring.  But  after  a 
while,  as  the  girl  listened,  she  admitted  that  the  man 
was  interesting. 

The  conversation  drifted  to  mines  and  mining. 
Mrs.  Weston  declared  that  she  had  never  seen  a  gold 

102 


East  and  West 

mine,  but  that  her  husband  owned  some  stock  in  one 
of  the  richest  mines  in  Old  Mexico.  Waring  grew  en- 
thusiastic as  he  described  mine  operating  in  detail, 
touching  the  subject  with  the  ease  of  experience,  yet 
lightly  enough  to  avoid  wearisome  technicalities. 
The  girl  listened,  occasionally  stealing  a  glance  at 
the  man's  profile  in  the  dusk.  She  thought  the  boy 
Lorry  looked  exceedingly  like  Mr.  Waring. 

And  the  person  who  looked  exceedingly  like  Mr. 
Waring  sat  at  the  far  end  of  the  veranda,  talking  to 
Buck  Hardy,  the  sheriff.  And  Lorry  was  not  alto- 
gether happy.  His  interest  in  the  capture  and  reward 
had  waned.  He  had  never  dreamed  that  a  girl  could 
be  so  captivating  as  Alice  Weston.  At  supper  she  had 
talked  with  him  about  the  range,  asking  many  ques- 
tions; but  she  had  not  referred  to  that  morning. 
Lorry  had  hoped  that  he  might  talk  with  her  after 
supper.  But  somehow  or  other  she  had  managed  to 
evade  his  efforts.  Just  now  she  seemed  to  be  mightily 
interested  in  his  father. 

Presently  Lorry  rose  and  strode  across  the  street 
to  the  station.  He  talked  with  the  agent,  who  showed 
him  a  telegraph  duplicate  for  an  order  on  Albu- 
querque covering  a  steering-knuckle  for  an  automo- 
bile. When  Lorry  reappeared  he  was  whistling.  It 
would  take  some  time  for  that  steering-knuckle  to 
arrive.  Meanwhile,  he  was  out  of  work,  and  the 
Westons  would  be  at  the  hotel  for  several  days  at 
least. 

103 


Tan^  of  Life 

There  was  some  mighty  fine  scenery  back  in  the 
Horseshoe  Range,  west.  Perhaps  the  girl  liked  West- 
ern scenery.  He  wondered  if  she  knew  how  to  ride. 
He  was  rather  inclined  to  think  that  her  mother  did 
not.  He  would  suggest  a  trip  to  the  Horseshoe  Moun- 
vains,  as  it  would  be  pretty  dull  at  the  hotel.  Nothing 
but  cowboys  and  Indians  riding  in  and  out  of  town. 
But  there  were  some  Hopi  ruins  over  in  the  Horse- 
shoe. Most  Easterners  were  interested  in  ruins.  He 
wished  that  the  Hopis  had  left  a  ruin  somewhat 
nearer  town. 

Yet  withal,  Lorry  was  proud  to  think  that  his 
father  could  be  so  interesting  to  real  Easterners.  If 
they  only  knew  who  his  father  was!  Lorry's  train  of 
thought  was  making  pretty  good  time  when  he 
checked  it  suddenly.  Folks  in  town  did  n't  know  that 
Waring  was  his  father.  And  "The  whole  dog-gone 
day  had  just  been  one  gosh-awful  mess!" 

"Weston,  you  said?"  Waring  queried. 

"Yes— -John  Archibald  Weston,  of  New  York." 
And  Mrs.  Weston  nodded. 

Waring  smiled.  J.  A.  Weston  was  one  of  the  stock- 
holders in  the  Ortez  Mine,  near  Sonora. 

"The  principal  stockholder,"  said  Mrs.  Weston. 

"I  met  him  down  there,"  said  Waring. 

"Indeed!  How  interesting!  You  were  connected 
with  the  mining  industry,  Mr.  Waring?" 

"In  a  way.   I  lived  in  Sonora  several  years." 

"That  accounts  for  your  wonderful  descriptions 

104 


East  and  West 

of  the  country.  I  never  imagined  it  could  be  so 
charming." 

"We  have  some  hill  country  west  of  here  worth 
looking  at.  If  you  intend  to  stay  any  length  of  time,  I 
might  arrange  a  trip." 

"That's  nice  of  you.  But  I  don't  ride.  Perhaps 
Alice  would  like  to  go." 

"Yes,  indeed!  But—" 

"We  might  get  Mrs.  Adams  to  come.  She  used  to 
ride." 

"I'll  ask  her,"  said  Alice  Weston. 

"But,  Alice — "  And  Mrs.  Weston  smiled.  Alice 
had  already  gone  to  look  for  Mrs.  Adams. 

Lorry,  who  had  heard,  scowled  at  a  veranda  post. 
He  had  thought  of  that  trip  to  the  Horseshoe  Range 
long  before  it  had  been  mentioned  by  his  father. 
Wimmin  made  him  tired,  he  told  the  unoffending  post. 

Shortly  afterward  Alice  appeared.  She  had  cajoled 
Mrs.  Adams  into  promising  that  she  would  ride  to  the 
Hopi  ruins  with  them,  as  the  journey  there  and  back 
could  be  made  in  a  day.  Alice  Weston  was  aglow  with 
excitement.  Of  course  the  young  cowboy  would  be 
included  in  the  invitation,  and  Alice  premeditated  a 
flirtation,  either  with  that  good-looking  Mr.  Waring 
or  Mrs.  Adams's  son.  It  did  n't  matter  much  which 
one;  it  would  be  fun. 

The  Westons  finally  went  to  their  rooms.  Lorry, 
out  of  sorts  with  himself  and  the  immediate  world, 
was  left  alone  on  the  veranda. 

105 


Tang  of  Life 

-"She  just  acted  so  darned  nice, to  me  I  forgot  to 
eat,"  he  told  the  post  confidentially.  "And  then  she 
forgot  I  was  livin'  in  the  same  county  —  after  supper. 
And  she  did  it  a-purpose.  I  reckon  she's  tryin'  to 
even  up  with  me  for  jailin'  that  hobo  after  she  said 
^please.'  Well,  two  can  play  at  that  even-up  game." 

He  rose  and  walked  upstairs  quietly.  As  he  entered 
his  room  he  heard  the  Westons  talking.  He  had  no- 
ticed that  the  door  of  one  of  their  rooms  was  open. 

"No,  I  think  he  went  away  with  that  tall  man,"  he 
heard  the  girl  say.  "Cowboys  don't  go  to  bed  early 
when  in  town." 

"Were  n't  you  a  little  too  nice  to  him  at  dinner?" 
Mrs.  Weston  said. 

Lorry  heard  the  girl  laugh.  "Oh,  but  he's  only  a 
boy,  mother!  And  it's  such  fun  to  watch  his  eyes 
when  he  smiles.  He  is  really  good-looking  and  inter- 
esting, because  he  has  n't  been  tamed.  I  don't  think 
he  has  any  real  feeling,  though,  or  he  would  n't  have 
brought  that  poor  creature  to  Stacey  and  put  him  in 
jail.  But  Mr.  Waring  is  different.  He  seems  so  quiet 
and  kind  —  and  rather  distinguished." 

Lorry  closed  his  door.  He  had  heard  enough  for 
one  evening. 

He  did  not  want  to  go  to  bed.  He  felt  anything  but 
sleepy,  so  he  tiptoed  downstairs  again  and  out  into 
the  night.  He  found  Buck  Hardy  in  a  saloon  up  the 
street.  Men  in  the  saloon  joked  with  Lorry  about  his 
capture.  He  seldom  drank,  but  to-night  he  did  not 

106 


East  and  West 

refuse  Hardy's  invitation  to  "have  something." 
While  they  were  chatting  a  rider  from  the  Starr 
Rancho  came  in.  Edging  up  to  Lorry,  he  touched  his 
arm.  "Come  on  out  a  minute,"  he  whispered. 

Outside,  he  told  Lorry  that  High  Chin,  with  several 
of  the  men,  was  coming  to  town  that  night  and  "put 
one  over"  on  the  sheriff  by  stealing  the  prisoner. 

"And  you  know  what  that  means,"  said  the  Starr 
cowboy.  "High  Chin '11  get  tanked,  and  the  hobo '11 
be  lucky  if  the  boys  don't  string  him  up.  High 
Chin's  awful  sore  about  something." 

Lorry's  first  idea  was  to  report  all  this  to  Buck 
Hardy.  But  he  feared  ridicule.  What  if  the  Starr 
cowboys  did  n't  come? 

"Why  don't  you  tell  Buck  yourself?"  he  queried. 

His  companion  insisted  that  he  dare  not  tell  the 
sheriff.  If  High  Chin  heard  that  he  had  done  so,  he 
would  be  out  of  a  job.  And  there  was  the  reward. 
If  the  prisoner's  identity  was  proven,  Lorry  would 
get  the  reward.  The  cowboy  did  n't  want  to  see  Lorry 
lose  such  easy  money. 

The  subject  seemed  to  require  some  liquidation, 
and  Lorry  finally  decided  that  he  himself  was  the 
only  and  legal  custodian  of  the  prisoner.  As  for  the 
reward  —  shucks !  He  did  n't  want  blood-money. 
But  High  Chin  would  never  lay  a  hand  on  the  hobo 
if  he  could  help  it. 

Alice  Weston,  anticipating  a  real  ride  into  the  des- 

107 


Tang  of  Life 

ert  country  and  the  hills,  was  too  excited  to  sleep. 
She  drew  a  chair  to  the  window,  and  sat  back  where 
she  could  view  the  vague  outline  of  the  hills  and  a 
world  filled  with  glowing  stars.  The  town  was  silent, 
lave  for  the  occasional  opening  or  closing  of  a  door 
and  the  infrequent  sound  of  feet  on  the  sidewalk. 
She  forgot  the  hazards  of  the  day  in  dreaming  of  the 
West;  no  longer  a  picture  out  of  books,  but  a  reality. 
She  scarcely  noticed  the  quiet  figure  that  came  round 
the  opposite  corner  and  passed  into  the  shadows  of 
the  jail  across  the  street.  She  heard  the  clink  of  a 
chain  and  a  sharp,  tearing  sound  as  of  wood  being 
rent  asunder.  She  peered  from  her  window,  trying 
to  see  what  was  going  on  in  the  shadows. 

Presently  a  figure  appeared.  The  hat,  the  attitude, 
and  manner  seemed  familiar.  Then  came  another 
figure;  that  of  the  tramp.  She  grew  tense  with  ex- 
citement. She  heard  Lorry's  voice  distinctly :  — 

"The  best  thing  for  you  is  to  fan  it.  Don't  try  the 
train.  They '11  get  you  sure  if  you  do.  No,  I  don't  ex- 
plain anything.  Just  ramble  —  and  keep  a-ramblin'." 

She  saw  one  of  the  figures  creep  along  the  opposite 
wall  and  shuffle  across  the  street.  She  felt  like  calling 
out.  Instead  she  rose  and  opened  her  door.  She 
would  tell  her  mother.  But  what  good  would  that  do? 
She  returned  to  the  window.  Lorry,  standing  on  the 
street  corner,  seemed  to  be  watching  an  invisible 
something  far  down  the  street.  Alice  Weston  heard 
the  sound  of  running  horses.  A  group  of  cowboys 

108 


East  and  West 

galloped  up.  She  heard  the  horses  stop.  Lorry  had 
disappeared. 

She  went  to  bed.  It  seemed  an  age  before  she  heard 
him  come  in. 

Lorry  undressed  in  the  dark.  As  he  went  to  bed 
he  grinned.  "And  the  worst  of  it  is,"  he  soliloquized, 
"she'll  think  I  did  it  because  she  asked  me  to  let 
him  go.  Guess  I  been  steppin'  on  my  foot  the  whole 
dog-gone  day." 


Chapter  XI 

Spring  Lamb 

MRS.  ADAMS  had  decided  to  have  roast 
spring  lamb  for  dinner  that  evening. 
Instead,  her  guests  had  to  content 
themselves  with  canned  salmon  and  hot  biscuit. 
And  because  .  .  . 

Lorry  appeared  at  the  breakfast  table  in  overalls 
and  jumper.  He  had  purposely  waited  until  the 
Westons  had  gone  downstairs.  He  anticipated  an 
invitation  to  ride  to  the  hills  with  them.  He  would 
decline,  and  smile  as  he  did  so.  If  that  girl  thought 
he  cared  anything  about  her! 

He  answered  their  greeting  with  a  cheery  "Good- 
mornin',"  and  immediately  turned  his  whole  atten- 
tion to  bacon  and  eggs. 

Alice  Weston  wondered  that  his  eyes  should  be 
so  clear  and  care-free,  knowing  what  she  did  of  last 
night's  escapade. 

Mrs.  Adams  was  interested  in  the  girl's  riding- 
habit.  It  made  her  own  plain  riding-skirt  and  blouse 
appear  rather  countrified.  And  after  breakfast 
Lorry  watched  the  preparations  for  the  ride  with 
a  critical  eye.  No  one  would  know  whether  or  not 
he  cared  to  go.  They  seemed  to  have  taken  it 
for  granted  that  he  would.  He  whistled  softly,  and 

110 


Spring  Lamb 

shook  his  head  as  his  mother  suggested  that  he  get 
ready. 

"Of  course  you're  coming  with  us,"  said  Alice 
Weston. 

"I  got  to  look  after  the  hotel,"  he  said  with  con- 
clusive emphasis. 

Lorry  disappeared,  and  in  the  bustle  of  prepara- 
tion and  departure  Mrs.  Adams  did  not  miss  him 
until  they  were  some  distance  out  on  the  mesa. 

"Where's  Lorry?"  she  queried. 

"He  said  he  had  to  look  after  the  hotel,"  said 
Alice  Weston. 

"Well,  he  did  n't.  I  had  everything  arranged  for. 
I  don't  know  what's  got  into  him  lately." 

Back  at  the  hotel  Lorry  was  leaning  against  the 
veranda  rail,  talking  to  Mrs.  Weston.  "I  reckon  it 
will  be  kind  of  tame  for  you,  ma'am.  I  was  wonder- 
ing, now,  if  you  would  let  me  look  over  that  ma- 
chine. I've  helped  fix  'em  up  lots  of  times." 

"Why,  I  don't  know.  It  wouldn't  do  any  harm 
to  look,  would  it?" 

"I  guess  not." 

Mrs.  Weston  gazed  at  Lorry  curiously.  He  had 
smiled,  and  he  resembled  Waring  so  closely  that 
Mrs.  Weston  remarked  it  aloud. 

Lorry  flushed.  "I  think  Mr.  Waring  is  a  right 
good-lookin'  man,  don't  you?  " 

Mrs.  Weston  laughed.   "Yes,  I  do." 

"Yes,  ma'am.   But  honest,  Mrs.  Weston,  I  neve/ 

111 


Tang  of  Life 

did  see  a  finer-lookin'  girl  than  your  girl.  I  seen 
plenty  of  magazine  pictures  like  her.  I'd  feel  some 
proud  if  I  was  her  mother." 

The  morning  was  not  so  dull,  after  all.  Mrs.  Wes- 
ton  was  not  used  to  such  frankness,  but  she  was  not 
displeased.  "I  see  you  have  on  your  working  clothes. 
If  you  really  think  you  can  repair  the  car  — " 

"I  got  nothin'  else  to  do.  The  sun  is  gettin'  round 
to  the  front.  If  you  would  like  to  sit  in  the  car  and 
watch,  I  would  look  her  over;  there,  in  the  shade." 

"I'll  get  a  hat,"  said  Mrs.  Weston,  rising. 

"Your  hair  is  right  pretty  without  a  hat.  And 
besides  you  would  be  in  the  shade  of  the  top." 

It  had  been  some  time  since  any  one  had  com- 
plimented Mrs.  Weston  about  her  hair,  and  espe- 
cially a  man  young  enough  to  be  her  son.  What 
was  the  cowboy  going  to  say  next? 

Mrs.  Weston  stepped  into  the  car,  which  was 
parked  on  the  south  side  of  the  building.  Lorry, 
whistling  blithely,  searched  until  he  found  a  wrench 
in  one  of  the  forward-door  pockets.  He  disappeared 
beneath  the  car.  Mrs.  Weston  could  hear  him  tin- 
kering at  something.  She  leaned  back,  breathing 
deep  of  the  clean,  thin  air.  She  could  not  recall 
having  felt  so  thoroughly  content  and  keenly  alive 
at  the  same  time.  She  had  no  desire  to  say  or  do 
anything. 

Presently  Lorry  appeared,  his  face  grimy  and  his 
hands  streaked  with  oil.  "Nothin'  busted,"  he  re- 


Spring  Lamb 

ported  cheerfully.  "We  got  a  car  over  to  the  ranch. 
She's  been  busted  a-plenty.  I  fixed  her  up  more 
times  than  I  can  remember.  Cars  is  like  horsesr 
ma'am;  no  two  just  alike,  but  kind  of  generally  th( 
same.  The  steering-knuckle  ain't  broke.  It's  the 
left  axle  that's  sprung.  That  won't  take  long  to 
straighten." 

Mrs.  Weston  smiled.  Lorry  thought  she  was 
actually  pretty.  She  saw  this  in  his  eyes,  and  flushed 
slightly. 

"And  I'll  just  block  her  up  and  take  off  the 
wheel,  and  I  reckon  the  blacksmith  can  straighten 
that  axle  easy." 

"It's  very  nice  of  you.  But  I  am  wondering  why 
you  did  n't  go  on  the  picnic  —  with  the  others." 

"Well,  who'd  'a'  kept  you  company,  ma'am? 
Anita,  she's  busy.  Anyhow,  I  seen  plenty  of  scen- 
ery. I'd  rather  be  here." 

"Talking  to  a  woman  old  enough  to  be  your 
mother?" 

"Huh!  I  never  thought  of  you  like  that.  I'm 
only  eighteen.  Anyhow,  what  difference  does  it 
make  how  old  a  lady  is,  if  she  is  pretty?" 

Mrs.  Weston's  eyes  twinkled.  "Do  you  ever  pay 
compliments  to  yourself  when  you  are  combing 
your  hair  or  tying  your  scarf?" 

"Me!  Why,  not  so  anybody  could  hear  'em. 
Now,  I  think  my  mother  is  right  pretty,  Mrs.  Wes- 
ton." 

113 


Tang  of  Life 

"So  do  I.  And  it  was  nice  of  you  to  say  it." 

"But  I  don't  see  anything  wrong  in  sayin'  what's 
so,"  he  argued.  "I  seen  you  kind  of  raise  your  eye- 
brows, and  I  thought  mebby  I  was  bein'  took  as  a 
joke." 

"Oh,  no,  indeed!" 

Lorry  disappeared  again.  As  he  worked  he  won- 
dered just  how  long  it  would  be  before  Buck  Hardy 
would  look  for  him.  Lorry  knew  that  some  one  must 
have  taken  food  and  water  to  the  prisoner  by  this 
time,  or  to  where  the  prisoner  was  supposed  to  be. 
But  he  did  not  know  that  Hardy  and  his  deputy  had 
questioned  Anita,  and  that  she  had  told  the  sheriff 
the  folks  had  all  gone  on  a  picnic  to  the  hills.  The  car, 
at  the  back  of  the  hotel,  was  not  visible  from  the  street. 

With  some  pieces  of  timber  Lorry  jacked  up  the 
front  of  the  machine  and  removed  the  damaged  wheel 
and  axle. 

He  took  the  bent  axle  to  the  blacksmith,  and  re- 
turned to  the  hotel.  Nothing  further  offered  just 
then,  so  he  suggested  that  he  clean  the  car.  Mrs. 
Weston  consented,  deciding  that  she  would  not  pay 
him  until  her  daughter  returned. 

He  attached  the  hose  to  a  faucet,  and  suggested 
that  Mrs.  Weston  take  a  chair,  which  he  brought 
from  the  veranda.  He  hosed  the  car,  and  as  he  pol- 
ished it,  Mrs.  Weston  asked  him  about  Waring. 

"Why,  he's  a  friend  of  ours,"  replied  Lorry. 

"Of  course.  But  I  was  wondering  what  he  did." 

114 


Spring  Lamb 

Lorry  hesitated.  "Did  n't  you  ever  hear  that  song 
about  Waring  of  Sonora-Town?  It 's  a  whizzer.  Well, 
that 's  him.  All  the  cowboys  sing  that  song." 

"I  have  never  heard  it." 

"Well,  mebby  dad  would  n't  like  that  I  sing  it. 
He's  kind  of  funny  that  way.  Now  you  wouldn't 
think  he  was  the  fastest  gunman  in  the  Southwest, 
would  you?" 

"  Gunman !  Your  father?  " 

Lorry  straightened  up  from  polishing  the  car.  "I 
clean  forgot  what  I  was  sayin'.  I  guess  my  foot 
slipped  that  time." 

"I  am  sorry  I  asked,"  said  Mrs.  Weston.  "It  really 
does  n't  matter." 

"Oh,  it  ain't  your  fault.  But  I  was  n't  aimin*  to 
tell.  Dad  he  married  my  mother,  and  they  went  to 
live  in  Sonora,  down  in  Mexico.  Some  of  the  minin' 
outfits  down  there  hired  him  regular  to  —  to  protect 
their  interests.  I  guess  ma  could  n't  stand  that  kind 
of  life,  for  after  a  few  years  she  brought  me  up  here. 
I  was  just  a  kid  then.  Ma  she  built  up  a  good  trade  at 
this  hotel.  Folks  call  her  Mrs.  Adams.  Her  name  was 
Adams  afore  she  got  married.  We  been  here  ten 
years.  Dad  did  n't  know  where  she  was  till  last  week 
he  showed  up  here.  I  reckon  she  thought  he  got 
killed  long  ago.  Folks  would  talk  about  it  if  they 
knowed  he  was  her  husband,  so  I  guess  she  asked  dad 
to  say  nothin'  about  that.  He  said  he  came  up  to  see 
me.  I  guess  he  don't  aim  to  stay  long." 

115 


Tang  of  Life 

"I  think  I  understand,"  said  Mrs.  Weston. 

"Well,  it  ain't  none  of  my  business,  long  as  ma  is 
all  right.  Say,  she  shines  like  a  new  hack,  eh?" 

"You  have  cleaned  the  car  beautifully." 

"Oh,  I  dunno.  Now,  if  it  was  a  hoss  —  And  say, 
I  guess  you'll  be  startin*  to-morrow.  That  axle  will 
be  all  right  in  about  an  hour." 

Just  then  Anita  came  to  call  them  to  luncheon. 
She  had  heard  them  talking  at  the  rear  of  the  hotel 
shortly  after  Sheriff  Hardy  had  inquired  for  Lorry. 
Several  townsfolk  came  in,  ate,  and  departed  on  their 
several  ways. 

After  luncheon  Mrs.  Weston  went  to  her  room. 
She  thought  she  would  lie  down  and  sleep  for  an  hour 
or  so,  but  the  noon  heat  made  the  room  rather  close. 
She  picked  up  a  book  and  came  down,  where  she 
found  it  comfortably  cool  on  the  veranda. 

The  town  was  quiet.  A  hand-car  with  its  section 
crew  of  Mexicans  clicked  past,  and  hummed  on  down 
the  glittering  rails.  A  stray  burro  meandered  about, 
and  finally  came  to  a  stop  in  the  middle  of  the  street, 
where  he  stood,  stoically  enduring  the  sun,  a  veri- 
table long-eared  statue  of  dejection.  Mrs.  Weston 
turned  a  page,  but  the  printed  word  was  flat  and  in- 
significant. 

She  felt  as  though  she  were  in  a  kind  of  twilight 
valley,  midway  between  the  hills  of  slumber  and  wake- 
fulness.  For  the  moment  she  forgot  the  name  of  the 
town  itself.  She  knew  that  she  could  recall  it  if  she 

116 


Spring  Lamb 

tried.  A  dog  lay  asleep  beneath  the  station  platform 
opposite,  one  relaxed  paw  over  his  nose.  Some  one 
was  calling  to  some  one  in  the  kitchen.  A  figure  passed 
in  the  street;  a  young  man  who  smiled  and  nodded. 
It  was  the  boy,  Lorry.  He  had  been  working  on  the 
car  that  morning.  She  had  watched  him  work,  rather 
enjoying  his  energy.  A  healthy  young  animal  as  un- 
sophisticated as  a  kitten,  and  really  innately  kind  and 
innocent  of  intent  to  flatter.  He  was  not  at  all  like  the 
bright  young  savage  who  had  roped  and  almost 
choked  to  death  that  awful  man. 

It  was  impossible  to  judge  a  person  at  first  sight 
and  especially  under  unusual  circumstances.  And  he 
seemed  not  at  all  chagrined  that  he  had  not  gone  with 
the  others  to  the  hills.  Alice  had  enjoyed  reading 
about  Westerners  —  rough,  boisterous  beings  intoler- 
able to  Mrs.  Weston  even  in  print.  And  Mrs.  Weston 
thought  that  proper  environment  and  association 
might  bring  out  their  better  qualities,  even  as  the 
boy,  Lorry,  seemed  to  have  improved  —  well,  since 
yesterday  morning.  Perhaps  he  was  on  his  good  be- 
havior because  they  were  there. 

It  seemed  past  comprehension  that  anything  start- 
ling could  happen  in  that  drowsy  atmosphere. 

The  young  cowboy  was  coming  back  down  the 
street,  some  part  of  the  car  over  his  shoulder.  Mrs. 
Weston  anticipated  his  nod,  and  nodded  lazily  as  he 
passed.  She  could  hear  him  tinkering  at  the  car. 

A  few  blocks  up  the  street,  Buck  Hardy  was  seated 

117 


Tang  of  Life 

in  his  office  talking  with  the  undersheriff .  The  under- 
sheriff  twisted  the  end  of  his  black  mustache  and 
looked  wise. 

"They  told  me  at  the  hotel  that  he  had  gone  rid- 
ing with  them  Easterners,"  said  Hardy.  "And  now 
you  say  he 's  been  in  town  all  day  working  on  that 
automobile." 

"Yep.  He's  been  to  the  blacksmith  twice  to-day. 
I  did  n't  say  anything  to  him,  seein'  you  was  over  to 
Larkins's,  and  said  he  was  out  of  town.  I'd  hate  to 
think  he  done  anything  like  that." 

"That  hobo  was  gone  when  I  went  to  talk  to  him 
this  morning.  The  lock  was  busted.  I  can't  figure  it 
out.  Young  Lorry  stood  to  win  the  reward,  and  he 
could  use  the  money." 

"Hear  anything  by  wire?"  queried  the  under- 
sheriff. 

"Nothing.  The  man  did  n't  get  by  on  any  of  the 
trains.  I  notified  both  stations.  He's  afoot  and  he's 
gone." 

"Well,  I  guess  the  kid  loses  out,  eh?" 

"That  ain't  all.  This  county  will  jump  me  for  let- 
ting that  guy  get  away.  It  won't  help  us  any  next 
election." 

"Well,  my  idea  is  to  have  a  talk  with  Adams,"  said 
the  undersheriff. 

"I'm  going  to  do  that.  I  like  the  kid,  and  then 
there's  his  mother — " 

"And  you  'd  hold  him  for  lettin'  the  guy  loose,  eh?  " 

118 


Spring  Lamb 

"I  would.  I'd  hold  my  own  brother  for  playing  a 
trick  like  that." 

"Well,  I  don't  sabe  it,"  asserted  the  undersherifL 
"Lorry  Adams  always  had  a  good  name." 

"We'll  have  a  talk  with  him,  Bill." 

"Are  you  sure  Adams  did  it,  Buck?" 

"No,  not  sure,  but  I'm  going  to  find  out.  I'll 
throw  a  scare  into  him  that'll  make  him  talk." 

"Mebby  he  won't  scare." 

"Then  I'll  run  him  in.  He's  some  enterprising,  if 
I  do  say  it.  He  put  High-Chin  Bob  out  of  business 
over  by  the  water-hole  yesterday." 

"High  Chin!  The  hell  you  say !" 

"That's  what  I  thought  when  I  heard  it.  High 
was  beating  up  the  hobo,  and  Lorry  claimed  him  as 
his  prisoner.  Jim  Waring  says  the  kid  walloped  High 
on  the  head  and  knocked  him  stiff." 

"Whew!  Bob  will  get  his  hide  for  that." 

"I  don't  know.  Jim  Waring  is  riding  the  country 
just  now." 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?" 

"  More  than  I  'm  going  to  tell  you,  Bill.  But  take  it 
from  me,  he 's  interested  in  young  Adams  a  whole  lot." 

When  Hardy  and  his  deputy  rode  over  to  the  hotel 
there  was  a  pause  in  the  chatter.  Alice  Weston  was 
describing  their  journey  to  her  mother  and  calling 
upon  Waring  to  substantiate  her  vivid  assertions  of 
the  wonderful  adventure.  The  saddle-horse  still  stood 

119 


Tang  of  Life 

at  the  hitching-rail,  and  Hardy,  who  had  an  eye  for 
a  good  horse,  openly  admired  the  big  buckskin.  War- 
ing was  talking  with  Lorry.  Mrs.  Adams  had  gone 
in.  Hardy  indicated  that  he  wanted  to  speak  to 
Lorry,  and  he  included  Waring  in  his  gesture.  Lorry 
rose  and  glanced  quickly  at  Alice  Weston.  She  was 
leaning  forward  in  her  chair,  suddenly  aware  of  a 
subtle  undercurrent  of  seriousness.  The  undersheriff 
was  patting  the  nose  of  the  big  buckskin. 

The  men  stepped  down  from  the  veranda,  and 
stood  near  the  horses. 

"That  hobo  got  away,"  said  the  sheriff.  "Do  you 
know  anything  about  it?" 

"I  turned  him  loose,"  said  Lorry,  without  hesita- 
tion. 

"What  for?" 

"I  changed  my  mind.  I  did  n't  want  any  blood- 
money  for  arrestin'  a  tramp." 

"That's  all  right.  But  you  can't  change  the  law 
so  easy.  That  man  was  my  prisoner.  Why  did  n't 
you  come  to  me?" 

"Well,  if  you  want  to  know,  in  company,"  said 
Lorry,  "High  Chin  and  the  boys  had  it  framed  up 
to  give  that  hobo  a  goin'-over  for  stealin'  a  Starr 
horse.  They  figured  to  bust  in  the  jail,  same  as  I  did. 
I  got  that  straight;  I  did  n't  aim  to  let  High  Chin  get 
his  hands  on  my  prisoner." 

"Well,  Lorry,  I  don't  like  to  do  it,  but  I  got  to 
hold  you  till  we  get  him." 

120 


Spring  Lamb 

*'How  do  you  figure  that?" 

"You've  aided  a  prisoner  to  escape.  You  broke 
the  law." 

"What  right  had  you  to  hold  him?" 

"Your  own  story.   You  brought  him  in  yourself." 

"I  sure  did.  But  supposin'  I  say  I  ain't  got  nothin' 
against  him,  and  the  folks  over  there  won't  appear 
against  him,  how  could  you  prove  anything?" 

"He's  under  suspicion.  You  said  yourself  he  was 
holding  up  them  tourists." 

"But  you  can't  make  me  swear  that  in  court." 

Buck  Hardy  glared  at  the  younger  man.  "See 
here,  Lorry,  I  don't  understand  your  game.  Suppose 
the  man  ain't  guilty.  He  was  locked  up  —  and  by 
me,  representing  this  county.  You  can't  prove  that 
the  Starr  boys  would  have  done  anything  to  him.  And 
you  can't  monkey  with  the  law  to  suit  yourself  as 
long  as  I'm  sheriff.  Am  I  right?"  And  Hardy  turned 
to  Waring. 

"You're  right,  Hardy." 

Lorry's  gray  eyes  shone  with  a  peculiar  light. 
"What  you  goin'  to  do  about  it,  Buck?" 

"Two  of  my  boys  are  out  looking  for  the  man. 
You're  under  arrest  till  he  is  brought  in." 

"You  aim  to  lock  me  in  that  calaboose?" 

"No.  But,  understand,  you're  under  arrest.  You 
can't  leave  town." 

"Say,  now,  Buck,  ain't  you  kind  of  crowdin'  me 
into  the  fence?" 


Tang  of  Life 

"I'd  arrest  my  own  brother  for  a  trick  like  that." 

Lorry  gazed  at  the  ground  for  a  minute.  He 
glanced  up.  Alice  Weston  sat  watching  them.  She 
could  not  hear  what  they  were  saying,  but  their  atti- 
tudes confirmed  her  apprehension. 

"I'd  like  to  speak  to  ma  a  minute,"  said  Lorry. 

"Go  ahead.  There's  no  hurry." 

Waring,  who  had  been  watching  his  son  closely, 
strolled  to  the  veranda  steps  and  sat  down. 

Hardy  lighted  a  cigar.  "I  hate  to  do  this,  Waring," 
he  told  the  other. 

"That's  all  right,  Hardy." 

The  sheriff  leaned  close.  "I  figured  to  bluff  him 
into  telling  which  way  the  hobo  went.  Mebby  he'll 
talk  later." 

Waring  smiled.  "You  have  a  free  hand  so  far  as  I 
am  concerned,"  he  said. 

Alice  Weston  was  talking  with  her  mother  when 
she  heard  a  cautious  step  on  the  stairway  behind  her. 
She  turned  her  head  slightly.  Lorry,  booted  and 
spurred,  stood  just  within  the  doorway.  He  had 
something  in  his  hand;  a  peculiarly  shaped  bundle 
wrapped  loosely  in  a  newspaper.  Hardy  was  talking 
to  Waring.  The  undersheriff  was  standing  close  to 
Waring's  horse.  Alice  Weston  had  seen  the  glint  in 
Lorry's  eyes.  She  held  her  breath. 

Without  a^word  of  warning,  and  before  the  group 
on  the  veranda  knew  what  was  happening,  Lorry 
shot  from  the  doorway,  leaped  from  the  edge  of  the 


Spring  Lamb 

veranda  rail,  and  alighted  square  in  the  saddle  of 
Wai-ing's  horse,  Dex.  The  buckskin  whirled  and 
dashed  down  the  road,  one  rein  dragging.  Lorry 
reached  down,  and  with  a  sinuous  sweep  of  his  body 
recovered  the  loose  rein.  As  he  swung  round  the  first 
corner  he  waved  something  that  looked  strangely 
like  a  club  in  a  kind  of  farewell  salute. 

Alice  Weston  had  risen.  The  undersheriff  grabbed 
the  reins  of  the  horse  nearest  him  and  mounted. 
Hardy  ran  to  the  other  horse.  Side  by  side  they  raced 
down  the  street  and  disappeared  round  a  corner. 

"What  is  it?"  queried  Alice  Weston. 

Waring  still  sat  on  the  steps.  He  was  laughing  when 
he  turned  to  answer  the  girl's  question. 

"Lorry  and  the  sheriff  had  a  little  argument. 
Lorry  did  n't  wait  to  finish  it.  It  was  something 
about  that  hobo  that  bothered  you  yesterday." 

Alice  crushed  her  handkerchief  to  her  mouth.  "I 
—  shall  we  get  ready  for  dinner?"  she  stammered. 

Mrs.  Weston  rose.  "  It 's  nothing  serious,  I  hope.  Do 
you  think  your — Mr.  Adams  will  be  back  to-night?" 

"Not  this  evening,"  replied  Waring. 

"You  mean  that  he  won't  be  back  at  all?" 

"Not  unless  he  changes  his  mind.  He's  riding  my 
horse." 

"He  took  your  horse?" 

"Yes.  I  think  he  made  a  mistake  in  leaving  so  sud- 
denly, but  he  did  n't  make  any  mistake  about  the 
best  horse." 

123 


Tang  of  Life 

"Aren't  you  worried  about  him?"  queried  Mrs. 
Weston. 

"Why,  no.  The  boy  will  take  care  of  himself .  Did 
you  happen  to  notice  what  he  had  in  his  hand  when 
he  ran  across  the  veranda?  " 

"No.  It  happened  so  suddenly.  Was  it  a  pistol?" 

Waring  grinned.  "No.  It  was  a  shoulder  of  lamb. 
The  next  town  is  thirty  miles  south,  and  no  restau- 
rants on  the  way." 

"But  his  mother — "  began  Alice  Weston. 

"Yes,"  said  Waring.  "I  think  that  leg  of  lamb  was 
for  dinner  to-night." 

Alice  Weston  said  nothing  further,  but  as  she  got 
ready  for  dinner  she  confessed  to  herself  that  the  event 
of  Lorry's  escape  would  have  been  much  more  thrill- 
ing, in  retrospect  at  least,  had  he  chosen  to  wave  his 
hasty  farewell  with  a  silken  bandanna,  or  even  a 
pistol.  To  ride  off  like  that,  waving  a  leg  of  lamb! 


Chapter  XII 

Bud  Shoop  and  Bondsman 

AS  a  young  man,  Bud  Shoop  had  punched 
cattle  on  the  southern  ranges,  cooked  for 
a  surveying  outfit,  prospected  in  the  Mo- 
gollons,  and  essayed  homesteading  on  the  Blue  Mesa, 
served  as  cattle  inspector,  and  held  for  many  years 
the  position  of  foreman  on  the  great  Gila  Ranch, 
where,  with  diligence  and  honor,  he  had  built  up  a 
reputation  envied  by  many  a  lively  cow-puncher  and 
seldom  tampered  with  even  by  Bud's  most  vindictive 
enemies.  And  he  had  enemies  and  many  friends. 

Meanwhile  he  had  taken  on  weight  until,  as  one 
of  his  friends  remarked,  "Most  any  hoss  but  a  Per- 
cheron  draft  would  shy  the  minute  Bud  tried  to  put 
his  foot  in  the  stirrup." 

And  when  Bud  came  to  that  point  in  his  career 
when  he  summed  up  his  past  and  found  that  his  chief 
asset  was  experience,  garnished  with  a  somewhat 
worn  outfit  of  pack-saddles,  tarps,  bridles,  chaps,  and 
guns,  he  sighed  heavily. 

The  old  trails  were  changing  to  roads.  The  local 
freight  intermittently  disgorged  tons  of  harvesting 
machinery.  The  sound  of  the  Klaxton  was  heard  in 
the  land.  Despite  the  times  and  the  manners,  Bud's 
girth  increased  insidiously.  His  hard-riding  days  were 

125 


Tang  of  Life 

past.  Progress  marched  steadily  onward,  leaving  an 
after-guard  of  homesteaders  intrenched  behind  miles 
of  barbed-wire  fence  and  mazes  of  irrigating-ditches. 
The  once  open  range  was  now  a  chessboard  of  agri- 
cultural endeavor,  with  the  pawns  steadying  plough- 
shares as  they  crept  from  square  to  square  until  the 
opposing  cattle  king  suffered  ignominious  checkmate, 
his  prerogative  of  free  movement  gone,  his  army  scat- 
tered, his  castles  taken,  and  his  glory  surviving  only 
in  the  annals  of  the  game. 

Incidentally,  Bud  Shoop  had  saved  a  little  money, 
and  his  large  popularity  would  have  won  for  him  a 
political  sinecure;  but  he  disliked  politics  quite  as 
heartily  as  he  detested  indolence.  He  needed  work  not 
half  so  much  as  he  wanted  it. 

He  had  failed  as  a  rancher,  but  he  still  held  his 
homestead  on  the  Blue  Mesa,  some  twenty  miles  from 
the  town  of  Jason,  an  old  Mormon  settlement  in  the 
heart  of  the  mesa  country. 

Friday  morning  at  sunup  Bud  saddled  his  horse, 
closed  the  door  of  his  cabin  on  the  Blue  Mesa,  and, 
whistling  to  his  old  Airedale,  Bondsman,  rode  across 
the  mesa  and  down  the  mountain  trail  toward  Jason. 
By  sundown  that  night  he  was  in  town,  his  horse  fed, 
and  he  and  Bondsman  sitting  on  the  little  hotel 
veranda,  watching  the  villagers  as  they  passed  in  the 
dusk  of  early  evening. 

Coatless  and  perspiring,  Bud  betook  himself  next 
morning  to  the  office  of  the  supervisor  of  that  district 

126 


Bud  Shoop  and  Bondsman 

of  the  Forest  Service.  Bondsman  accompanied  him, 
stalking  seriously  at  his  master's  heels.  The  super- 
visor was  busy.  Biid  filled  a  chair  in  the  outer  office, 
polished  his  bald  spot  with  a  blue  bandanna,  and 
waited. 

Presently  the  supervisor  called  him  in.  Bud  rose 
heavily  and  plodded  to  another  chair  in  the  private 
office.  Torrance,  the  supervisor,  knew  Bud;  knew 
that  he  was  a  solid  man  in  the  finer  sense  of  the  word 
from  the  shiny  dome  of  his  head  to  his  dusty  boot. 
And  Torrance  thought  he  knew  why  Bud  had  called. 
The  Airedale  sat  in  the  outer  office,  watching  his 
master.  Occasionally  the  big  dog  rapped  the  floor 
with  his  stubby  tail. 

"He's  just  tellin'  me  to  go  ahead  and  say  my  piece, 
John,  and  that  he'll  wait  till  I  get  through.  That 
there  dog  bosses  me  around  somethin'  scandalous." 

"He's  getting  old  and  set  in  his  ways,"  laughed 
Torrance. 

"So  be  I,  John.  Kind  of  settin'  in  my  own  way 
mostly." 

"Well,  Bud,  how  are  things  up  on  the  mesa?" 

"Growin'  and  bloomin'  and  singin'  and  feedin'  and 
keepin'  still,  same  as  always." 

"What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

"Well,  I  ain't  seen  a  doctor  for  so  long  I  can't  tell 
you;  but  I  reckon  I  need  more  exercise  and  a  little 
salary  thrown  in  for  luck." 

"I'm  glad  you  came  in.   You  needn't  say  any- 

127 


Tang  of  Life 

thing  about  it,  but  I  'm  scheduled  to  leave  here  next 
month." 

"Then  I  reckon  I'm  left.  Higher  up,  John?" 

"Yes.  I  have  this  end  of  it  pretty  well  whipped 
into  shape.  They  seem  to  think  they  can  use  me  at 
headquarters." 

Bud  frowned  prodigiously.  The  situation  did  not 
seem  to  promise  much.  And  naturally  enough,  being 
a  Westerner,  Bud  disliked  to  come  out  flatfooted  and 
ask  for  work. 

His  frown  deepened  as  the  supervisor  asked  an- 
other question:  "Do  you  think  you  could  hold  down 
my  job,  Bud?" 

"Say,  John,  I've  stood  for  a  lot  in  my  time.  But, 
honest,  I  was  lookin'  for  a  job  as  ranger.  I  can  ride 
yet.  And  if  I  do  say  it  I  know  every  hill  and  canon, 
every  hogback  and  draw  and  flat  from  here  to  the 
Tonto  Basin." 

"I  know  it.  I  was  coming  to  that.  The  grazing- 
leases  are  the  most  important  items  just  now.  You 
know  cattle,  and  you  know  something  about  the 
Service.  You  have  handled  men.  I  am  not  joking." 

"Well,  this  is  like  a  hobo  gettin'  up  his  nerve  to  ask 
for  a  san'wich,  and  havin'  the  lady  of  the  house  come 
runnin'  with  a  hot  apple  pie.  I'll  tackle  anything." 

"Well,  the  Department  has  confidence  enough  in 
me  to  suggest  that  I  name  a  successor,  subject  to 
their  approval.  Do  you  think  that  you  could  hold 
down  this  job?" 

128 


Bud  Shoop  and  Bondsman 

"If  settin'  on  it  would  hold  it  down,  it  would  never 
get  up  alive,  John.  But  I  ain't  no  author." 

"Author?" 

"Uh-uh.  When  it  comes  to  facts,  I  aim  to  brand 
'em.  But  them  reports  to  headquarters  — " 

The  supervisor  laughed.  "You  would  be  entitled 
to  a  clerk.  The  man  I  have  would  like  to  stay.  And 
another  thing.  I  have  just  had  an  application  from 
young  Adams,  of  Stacey.  He  wrote  from  St.  Johns. 
He  wants  to  get  into  the  Service.  While  we  are  at  it, 
what  do  you  know  about  him?" 

"Nothin'.  But  his  mother  runs  a  right  comf 'ta- 
ble eatin'-house  over  to  Stacey.  She's  a  right  fine 
woman.  I  knew  her  when  she  was  wearin'  her  hair  in 
a  braid." 

"I  have  stopped  there.  It's  a  neat  place.  Would 
you  take  the  boy  on  if  you  were  in  my  place?  " 

Bud  coughed  and  studied  the  ends  of  his  blunt 
fingers.  "Well,  now,  John,  if  I  was  in  your  place,  I 
could  tell  you." 

Torrance  was  amused  and  rather  pleased.  Bud's 
careful  evasion  was  characteristic.  He  would  do  noth- 
ing hastily.  Moreover,  with  Shoop  as  supervisor,  it 
was  safe  to  assume  that  the  natives  would  hesitate  to 
attempt  their  usual  subterfuges  in  regard  to  grazing- 
leases.  Bud  was  too  well  known  for  that.  Torrance 
had  had  trouble  with  the  cattlemen  and  sheepmen. 
He  knew  that  Shoop's  mere  name  would  obviate 
much  argument  and  bickering. 

129 


Tang  of  Life 

"The  White  Mountain  Apaches  are  eating  a  lot  of 
beef  these  days,"  he  said  suddenly. 

Shoop  grinned.  "And  it  ain't  all  Gov'ment  beef, 
neither.  The  line  fence  crost  Still  Canon  is  down. 
They's  been  a  fire  up  on  the  shoulder  of  Ole  Baldy  — • 
nothin'  much,  though.  Your  telephone  line  to  the 
lookout  is  saggin'  bad  over  by  Sheep  Crossin'.  Some 
steer '11  come  along  and  take  it  with  him  in  a  hurry 
one  of  these  days.  A  grizzly  killed  a  yearlin'  over 
by  the  Milk  Ranch  about  a  week  ago.  I  seen  your 
ranger,  young  Winslow,  day  before  yesterday.  He 
says  somebody  has  been  grazin' sheep  on  the  posted 
country,  west.  He  was  after  'em.  The  grass  is  pretty 
good  on  the  Blue.  The  Apaches  been  killin'  wild 
turkey  on  the  wrong  side  of  their  line.  I  seen  their 
tracks  —  and  some  feathers.  They 's  some  down  tim- 
ber along  the  north  side  of  the  creek  over  on  the  mea^ 
dows.  And  a  couple  of  wimmin  was  held  up  over  by 
the  Notch  the  other  day.  I  ain't  heard  the  partic'lars. 
Young  Adams  — " 

"Where  do  you  get  it  all,  Bud?  Only  two  of  the 
things  you  mentioned  have  been  reported  in  to  this 
office." 

"Who,  me?  Huh!  Well,  now,  John,  that's  just  the 
run  of  news  that  floats  in  when  you  're  movin'  around 
the  country.  If  I  was  to  set  out  to  get  inf o'mation  — " 
'  You'd  swamp  the  office.  All  right.  I'll  have  my 
clerk  draft  a  letter  of  application.  You  can  sign  it. 
I'll  add  my  word.  It  will  take  some  time  to  put  this 

130 


Bud  Shoop  and  Bondsman 

through,  if  it  goes  through.  I  don't  promise  any- 
thing. Come  in  at  noon  and  sign  the  letter.  Then 
you  might  drop  in  in  about  two  weeks;  say  Saturday 
morning.  We'll  have  heard  something  by  then." 

Bud  beamed.  "I'll  do  that.  And  while  I'm 
waitin'  I  '11  ride  over  some  of  that  country  up  there 
and  look  around." 

Torrance  leaned  forward.  "There 's  one  more  thing, 
Bud.  I  know  this  job  offers  a  temptation  to  a  man  to 
favor  his  friends.  So  far  as  this  office  is  concerned,  I 
don't  want  you  to  have  any  friends.  I  want  things 
run  straight.  I've  given  the  best  of  my  life  to  the 
Service.  I  love  it.  I  have  dipped  into  my  own  pocket 
when  Washington  could  n't  see  the  need  for  improve- 
ments. I  have  bought  fire-fighting  tools,  built  trails, 
and  paid  extra  salaries  at  times.  Now  I  will  be  where 
I  can  back  you  up.  Keep  things  right  up  to  the  min- 
ute. If  you  get  stuck,  wire  me.  Here's  your  territory 
on  this  map.  You  know  the  country,  but  you  will 
find  this  system  of  keeping  track  of  the  men  a  big 
help.  The  pins  show  where  each  man  is  working.  We 
can  go  over  the  office  detail  after  we  have  heard  from 
headquarters." 

Bud  perspired,  blinked,  shuffled  his  feet.  "I  ain't 
goin'  to  say  thanks,  John.  You  know  it." 

"That's  all  right,  Bud.  Your  thanks  will  be  just 
what  you  make  of  this  work  when  I  leave.  There  has 
been  a  big  shake-up  in  the  Service.  Some  of  us  stayed 
on  top." 

131 


Tang  of  Life 

"Congratulations,  John.  Saturday,  come  two 
weeks,  then." 

And  Bud  heaved  himself  up.  The  Airedale,  Bonds- 
man, thumped  the  floor  with  his  tail.  Bud  turned 
a  whimsical  face  to  the  supervisor.  "Now  listen  to 
that!  What  does  he  say?  Well,  he's  tellin'  me  he 
sabes  I  got  a  chanct  at  a  job  and  that  he'll  keep  his 
mouth  shut  about  what  you  said,  like  me.  And  that 
it  Js  about  time  I  quit  botherin'  folks  what 's  busy  and 
went  back  to  the  hotel  so  he  can  watch  things  go  by. 
That  there  dog  bosses  me  around  somethin'  scanda- 
lous." 

Torrance  smiled,  and  waved  his  hand  as  Bud  wad- 
dled from  the  office,  with  Bondsman  at  his  heels. 

About  an  hour  later,  as  Torrance  was  dictating  a 
letter,  he  glanced  up.  Bud  Shoop,  astride  a  big  bay 
horse,  passed  down  the  street.  For  a  moment  Tor- 
rance forgot  office  detail  in  a  general  appreciation 
of  the  Western  rider,  who,  once  in  the  saddle,  despite 
age  or  physical  attributes,  bears  himself  with  a  sub- 
conscious ease  that  is  a  delight  to  behold,  be  he  lean 
Indian,  lithe  Mexican,  or  bed-rock  American  with  a 
girth,  say,  of  fifty-two  inches  and  weighing  perhaps 
not  less  than  two  hundred  and  twenty  pounds. 

"He'll  make  good,"  soliloquized  the  supervisor. 
"He  likes  horses  and  dogs,  and  he  knows  men.  He's 
all  human  —  and  there's  a  lot  of  him.  And  they  say 
that  Bud  Shoop  used  to  be  the  last  word  in  riding 
'em  straight  up,  and  white  lightning  with  a  gun." 

132 


Bud  Shoop  and  Bondsman 

The  supervisor  shook  his  head.  "Take  a  letter  to 
Collins,"  he  said. 

The  stenographer  glanced  up.  "Senator  Collins, 
Mr.  Torrance?" 

"Yes.  And  make  an  extra  copy.  Mark  it  confi- 
dential. You  need  not  file  the  copy.  I'll  take  care  of 
it.  And  if  Mr.  Shoop  is  appointed  to  my  place,  he 
need  know  nothing  about  this  letter." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Because,  Evers,"  said  Torrance,  relaxing  from  his 
official  manner  a  bit,  "it  is  going  to  be  rather  difficult 
to  get  Mr.  Shoop  appointed  here.  I  want  him.  I  can 
depend  on  him.  We  have  had  too  many  theorists  in 
this  field.  And  remember  this;  stay  with  Shoop 
through  thick  and  thin  and  some  day  you  may  land 
a  job  as  private  secretary  to  a  State  Senator." 

"All  right,  sir.  I  did  n't  know  that  you  were  going 
into  politics,  Mr.  Torrance." 

"You 're oft7  the  trail  a  little,  Evers.  I'll  never  run 
for  Senator.  I'm  with  the  Service  as  long  as  it  will 
have  me.  But  if  some  clever  politician  happens  to 
get  hold  of  Shoop,  there  isn't  a  man  in  this  mesa 
country  that  could  win  against  him.  He's  just  the 
type  that  the  mesa  people  like.  He  is  all  human.  — 
Dear  Senator  Collins—" 

The  stenographer  bent  over  his  book. 

Later,  as  Torrance  closed  his  desk,  he  thought  of 
an  incident  in  Shoop's  life  with  which  he  had  long 
been  familiar.  The  Airedale,  Bondsman,  had  once 

133 


Tang  of  Life 

been  shot  wantonly  by  a  stray  Apache.  Shoop  had 
found  the  dog  as  it  crawled  along  the  corral  fence, 
trying  to  get  to  the  cabin.  Bud  had  ridden  fifty  miles 
through  a  winter  snowstorm  with  Bondsman  across 
the  saddle.  An  old  Mormon  veterinary  in  St.  Johns 
had  saved  the  dog's  Me.  Shoop  had  come  close  to 
freezing  to  death  during  that  tedious  ride. 

Bud  Snoop's  assets  in  the  game  of  life  amounted 
to  a  few  acres  of  mesa  land,  a  worn  outfit  of  saddlery, 
and  a  small  bank  account.  But  his  greatest  asset, 
of  which  he  was  blissfully  unconscious,  was  a  big, 
homely  love  for  things  human  and  for  animals;  a  love 
that  set  him  apart  from  his  fellows  who  looked  upon 
men  and  horses  and  dogs  as  merely  useful  or  other- 
wise. 


Chapter  XIII 
The  Horse  Trade 

THE  following  day  a  young  cowboy,  mounted 
upon  a  singularly  noticeable  buckskin  horse, 
rode  down  the  main  street  of  Jason  and  dis- 
mounted at  the  Forestry  Office.  Torrance  was  read- 
ing a  letter  when  his  clerk  proffered  the  young  man 
a  chair  and  notified  the  supervisor  that  a  Mr.  Adams 
wished  to  see  him. 

A  few  minutes  later,  Lorry  was  shown  in.  The  door 
closed. 

Torrance  surveyed  the  strong,  young  figure  with 
inward  approval.  "I  have  your  letter.  Sit  down. 
I  see  your  letter  is  postmarked  St.  Johns." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Know  anything  about  the  Service?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Why  do  you  want  to  get  into  it?" 

"I  thought  mebby  I'd  like  the  work." 

"Have  you  any  recommendations?" 

"Nothin'  —  except  what  you're  lookin'  at." 

Torrance  smiled.  "Could  you  get  a  letter  from 
your  last  employer?" 

"Not  the  kind  of  letter  that  would  do  any  good. 
I  had  an  argument  with  the  foreman,  and  he  fired 


me." 


135 


Tang  of  Life 

Torrance  had  heard  something  about  the  matter, 
and  did  not  question  further  at  the  time. 

"Do  you  drink?"  queried  Torrance. 

"I  never  monkeyed  with  it  much.  I  reckon  I  could 
if  I  wanted  to." 

Torrance  drummed  on  the  desk  with  his  long, 
strong  fingers.  He  reached  in  a  drawer  and  drew  out 
a  letter. 

"How  about  that?" 

Lorry  glanced  at  the  heading.  Evidently  the 
sheriff  knew  of  his  general  whereabouts.  The  letter 
stated  that  the  sheriff  would  appreciate  information 
leading  to  the  apprehension  of  Lawrence  Adams, 
wanted  for  aiding  a  prisoner  to  escape  and  for  having 
in  his  possession  a  horse  that  did  not  belong  to  him. 

"What  he  says  is  right,"  Lorry  asserted  cheerfully. 
"I  busted  into  the  jail  and  turned  that  hobo  loose, 
and  I  borrowed  the  horse  I'm  riding.  I  aim  to  send 
him  back.  My  own  horse  is  in  the  corral  back  at 
Stacey." 

"What  was  your  idea  in  letting  the  man  go  after 
arresting  him?" 

Lorry's  clear  color  deepened.  "I  was  n't  figurin* 
on  explainin'  that." 

"You  don't  have  to  explain.  But  you  will  admit 
that  the  charges  in  this  letter  are  rather  serious.  We 
don't  want  men  in  the  Service  who  are  open  to  criti- 
cism. You're  pretty  young  to  have  such  a  record. 
It's  up  to  you  to  explain  —  or  not,  just  as  you  like. 

136 


The  Horse  Trade 

But  anything  you  tell  me  will  be  treated  as  absolutely 
confidential,  Adams." 

"All  right.  Well,  everything  I  done  that  day  went 
wrong.  I  caught  the  hobo  tryin'  to  rob  a  couple  of 
wimmin  over  by  the  Notch.  I  was  takin5  him  to 
Stacey  when  Bob  Brewster  butted  in.  The  hobo  was 
sick,  and  I  did  n't  aim  to  stand  and  see  him  kicked  and 
beat  up  with  a  quirt,  even  if  he  did  steal  one  of  the 
Starr  horses.  I  told  High  Chin  to  quit,  but  his  hearin' 
was  n't  good,  so  I  had  to  show  him.  Then  I  got  to 
thinkin*  I  was  n't  so  much  —  takin'  a  pore,  busted 
tramp  to  jail.  And  it  made  me  sick  when  everybody 
round  town  was  callin'  me  some  little  hero.  Then  one 
of  the  Starr  boys  told  me  High  Chin  was  cinchin'  up 
to  ride  in  and  get  the  hobo,  anyhow,  so  I  busted  the 
lock  and  told  him  to  fan  it." 

"Why  did  n't  you  appeal  to  the  sheriff?" 

"Huh!  Buck  Hardy  is  all  right.  But  I  can  tell  you 
one  thing;  he's  not  the  man  to  stand  up  to  High  Chin 
when  High  is  drinkin'.  Why,  I  see  High  shove  a  gun 
in  Hardy's  face  once  and  tell  him  to  go  home  and  go  to 
bed.  And  Hardy  went.  Anyhow,  that  hobo  was  my 
prisoner,  and  I  did  n't  aim  to  let  High  Chin  get  hi? 
hands  on  him." 

"I  see.  Well,  you  have  a  strange  way  of  doing 
things,  but  I  appreciate  why  you  acted  as  you  did. 
Of  course,  you  know  it  is  a  grave  offense  to  aid  a 
prisoner  to  escape." 

"Buck  Hardy  seems  to  think  so." 

137 


Tang  of  Life 

"So  do  I.  And  how  about  that  horse?" 

"Well,  next  day  I  was  fixin'  up  the  machine  and 
foolin'  around  —  that  machine  belonged  to  them 
tourists  that  the  fella  stuck  up  —  when  along  about 
sundown  Buck  Hardy  comes  swellin'  up  to  me  and 
tells  me  I  'm  under  arrest.  He  could  n't  prove  a  darned 
thing  if  I  had  n't  said  I  done  the  job.  But,  anyhow, 
he  did  n't  see  it  my  way,  so  I  borrowed  Waring's 
horse  and  come  down  this  way.  Everybody  saw  me 
take  the  horse.  You  can't  call  that  stealin'." 

"Did  Hardy  ride  after  you?" 

"Yes,  sir.  But  he  was  so  far  behind  I  couldn't 
hear  what  he  wanted.  That  big  buckskin  is  a  wonder. 
I  wish  I  owned  him." 

Torrance  mentally  patched  the  fragments  of  evi- 
dence together.  He  decided  that  a  young  man  who 
could  capture  a  holdup  man,  best  the  notorious  High 
Chin  in  a  fight,  repair  a  broken  automobile,  turn  a 
prisoner  loose,  and  make  his  own  escape  all  within 
the  short  compass  of  forty-eight  hours  was  a  rather 
capable  person  in  a  way.  And  Torrance  knew  by 
Lorry's  appearance  and  manner  that  he  was  still  on 
the  verdant  side  of  twenty.  If  such  a  youth  chose  to 
turn  his  abilities  in  the  right  direction  he  might  ac- 
complish much.  Lorry's  extreme  frankness  satisfied 
Torrance  that  the  boy  had  told  the  truth.  He 
would  give  him  a  chance. 

"Do  you  know  Bud  Shoop?"  queried  the  super- 
visor. 

138 


The  Horse  Trade 

"No,  sir.  I  know  what  he  looks  like.  He's  been 
to  our  hotel." 

"Well,  you  might  look  him  up.  He  may  be  out  of 
town.  Possibly  he  is  up  at  his  homestead  on  the  Blue 
Mesa.  Tell  Mr.  Shoop  that  I  sent  you  to  him.  He 
will  understand.  But  you  will  have  to  square  your- 
self with  the  authorities  before  I  can  put  you  to 
work/' 

'  Yes,  sir.  But  I  don't  aim  to  ride  back  to  Stacey 
just  because  I  know  where  it  is.  If  they  want  me,  they 
can  find  me." 

"That  is  your  affair.  When  your  slate  is  clear  — " 

"Mr.  Waring  to  see  you,"  said  the  clerk,  poking 
his  head  through  the  doorway. 

Torrance  stepped  out  and  greeted  Waring  heartily. 
Lorry  was  surprised;  both  to  see  his  father  and  to 
learn  that  Torrance  and  he  were  old  friends. 

"I  saw  this  horse  as  I  rode  up,  and  I  took  a  fancy 
to  him,"  said  Waring,  after  having  nodded  to  Lorry. 
"Sorry  to  bother  you,  Torrance." 

"Here's  the  man  you'll  bother,  I  think,"  said  Tor- 
rance, indicating  Lorry.  "He's  riding  that  horse." 

Lorry  grinned.   "Want  to  trade  horses?" 

"I  don't  know.  Is  that  your  horse?" 

"Nope.  I  borrowed  him.  Is  that  your  horse?" 
And  he  indicated  Gray  Leg. 

"No.  I  borrowed  him." 

Torrance  laughed.  "The  buckskin  seems  to  be 
a  pretty  fair  horse." 

139 


Tang  of  Life 

"Then  I  ought  to  get  somethin'  to  boot,"  sug- 
gested Lorry. 

"How  much?"  laughed  Waring. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  You'll  find  that  buckskin  a 
mighty  likely  rambler." 

Waring  turned  to  Torrance.  "You'll  witness  that 
we  made  this  trade,  John?" 

"All  right.  But  remember;  neither  of  you  owns  the 
horse  you  are  trading." 

"But  we're  goin'  to,"  asserted  Lorry. 

Waring  reached  beneath  his  coat  and  unbuckled  a 
heavy  belt.  From  buckle  to  tongue  it  glittered  with 
cartridges  and  a  service-worn  holster  bulged  with  a 
short-barreled  Colt's  .45.  He  handed  the  belt  to 
Lorry. 

"It's  a  good  gun,"  he  said,  "and  I  hope  you'll 
never  need  to  use  it." 

Lorry  stammered  his  thanks,  untied  Dex,  and  gave 
the  reins  into  Waring's  hand.  "The  trade  goes,"  he 
said.  "But  we  change  saddles." 

"Correct,"  said  Waring.  "And  here's  a  letter  — 
from  your  mother." 

Lorry  slid  the  letter  in  his  shirt.  ""How's  the 
Weston  folks?" 

"They  were  to  leave  this  morning.  Mrs.  Weston 
asked  me  to  pay  you  for  repairing  their  machine.  She 
gave  me  the  money." 

"You  can  keep  it.  I  was  n't  workin'  for  pay." 

"All  right.  Going  to  stay  down  here  awhile?" 

140 


The  Horse  Trade 

"I  aim  to.  Did  you  see  anything  of  Buck  Hardy  on 
the  way  down?" 

"Hardy?  Why,  no.  But  I  rode  part  way  with  his 
deputy.  He's  due  here  some  time  to-day." 

"That  bein'  the  case,"  said  Lorry,  swinging  to  the 
saddle,  "I  reckon  I'll  hunt  up  Bud  Shoop.  Thanks 
for  my  horse.  Mebby  I  '11  be  back  in  this  town  in  two, 
three  days."  And  he  was  gone. 

Waring  dropped  Dex's  reins.  "Got  a  minute  to 
spare,  Torrance?" 

"Yes,  indeed.   You're  looking  well,  Jim." 

In  the  office  they  shook  hands  again. 

"It's  a  long  time,"  said  Torrance,  proffering  a 
cigar.  "You  were  punching  cattle  for  the  Box  S  and 
I  was  a  forest  ranger  those  days.  Did  Mexico  get  too 
hot?" 

"Warm.  What's  the  boy  doing  down  here?" 

"He  seems  to  be  keeping  out  of  the  way  of  the 
sheriff,"  laughed  Torrance.  "Incidentally  he  applied 
for  a  position  as  ranger." 

"Did  he?  I 'm  glad  of  that.  I  was  afraid  he  might 
get  to  riding  the  high  trails.  He's  got  it  in  him." 

"You  seem  to  know  him  pretty  well." 

"Not  so  well  as  I  would  like  to.  I'm  his  father." 

"Why,  I  had  no  idea  —  but,  come  to  think  of  it,  he 
does  resemble  you.  I  did  n't  know  that  you  were 
married." 

"Yes.  I  married  Annie  Adams,  of  Las  Cruces. 
He's  our  boy." 

141 


Tang  of  Life 

Torrance  saw  that  Waring  did  not  care  to  talk 
further  on  the  subject  of  his  married  life.  And  Tor- 
rance recalled  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Adams,  who  lived  in 
Stacey,  had  been  in  Mexico. 

" He 's  a  live  one,"  said  Torrance.  "I  think  I '11  take 
him  on." 

"I  don't  ask  you  to,  John.  He's  got  to  play  the 
game  for  himself.  He  may  not  always  do  right,  but 
he'll  always  do  what  he  thinks  is  right,  if  I  am  any 
judge.  And  he  won't  waste  time  doing  it.  I  told 
Hardy's  deputy  on  the  way  down  that  he  might  as 
well  give  up  running  after  the  boy.  Hardy  is  pretty 
sore.  Did  Lorry  tell  you?" 

"Yes.  And  I  can  understand  his  side  of  it." 

"I  think  that  little  Weston  girl  dazzled  him,"  said 
Waring.  "She's  clever,  and  Lorry  has  n't  seen  many 
of  her  kind.  I  think  he  would  have  stayed  right  in 
Stacey  and  faced  the  music  if  she  had  n't  been  there 
when  Hardy  tried  to  arrest  him.  Lorry  is  only 
eighteen.  He  had  to  show  off  a  little." 

"Will  Hardy  follow  it  up?" 

"Not  too  strong.  The  folks  in  Stacey  are  giving 
Hardy  the  laugh.  He's  not  so  popular  as  he  might 
be." 

"I  can't  say  that  I  blame  Hardy,  either.  The  boy 
was  wrong." 

"Not  a  bit.  Lorry  was  wrong." 

"It  will  blow  over,"  said  Torrance.  "I  had  no 
idea  he  was  your  son." 

142 


The  Horse  Trade 

Waring  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  "John,  I  had 
two  reasons  for  coming  down  here.  One  was  to 
get  my  horse.  That's  settled.  Now  I  want  to  talk 
about  leasing  a  few  thousand  acres  down  this 
way,  with  water-rights.  I'm  through  with  the 
other  game.  I  want  to  run  a  few  cattle  in  here, 
under  fence.  I  think  it  will  pay." 

Torrance  shook  his  head.  'The  Mormons  and 
the  Apaches  will  keep  you  poor,  Jim." 

"They  might,  if  I  tried  it  alone.  But  I  have  a 
partner  just  up  from  the  border.  You  remember 
Pat.  He's  been  customs  inspector  at  Nogales 
for  some  time." 

"I  should  say  I  do  remember  him!" 

"Well,  he  asked  me  to  look  around  and  write 
to  him.  I  think  we  could  do  well  enough  here. 
What  do  you  know  about  the  land  north  of  here, 
on  up  toward  the  Santa  Fe?" 

Torrence  pondered  the  situation.  The  times 
were,  indeed,  changing  when  men  like  Waring  and 
Pat  ceased  to  ride  the  high  trails  and  settled  down 
to  ranching  under  fence.  The  day  of  the  gunman 
was  past,  but  two  such  men  as  Pat  and  Waring 
would  suppress  by  their  mere  presence  in  the 
country  the  petty  rustling  and  law-breaking  that 
had  made  Torrance's  position  difficult  at  times. 

"I'll  see  what  I  can  do,"  said  he.  "About  how 
much  land?" 

"Ten  or  twenty  thousand,  to  begin  with." 

143 


Tang  of  Life 

"There's  some  Government  land  not  on  the  res- 
ervation between  here  and  the  railroad.  There  are 
three  or  four  families  of  squatters  on  it  now.  I  don't 
know  how  they  manage  to  live,  but  they  always 
seem  to  have  beef  and  bacon.  You  might  have  some 
trouble  about  getting  them  off  —  and  about  the 
water.  I  '11  let  you  know  some  time  next  month  just 
what  I  can  do." 

"We  won't  have  any  trouble,"  said  Waring. 
"That's  the  last  thing  we  want.  I'll  ride  over  next 
month.  You  can  write  to  me  at  Stacey  if  anything 
turns  up." 

"I'll  write  to  you.  Do  you  ever  get  hungry? 
Come  on  over  to  the  hotel.  I  'm  as  hungry  as  a  bear." 


Chapter  XIV 

Bondsman's  Decision 

BUD  SHOOP'S  homestead  on  the  Blue 
Mesa  lay  in  a  wide  level  of  grassland, 
round  which  the  spruce  of  the  high  coun- 
try swept  in  a  great,  blue-edged  circle.,  To  the  west 
the  barren  peak  of  Mount  Baldy  maintained  a  soli- 
tary vigil  in  sunshine  and  tempest.  Away  to  the 
north  the  timbered  plateaus  dropped  from  level  to 
level  like  a  gigantic  stair  until  they  merged  with  the 
horizon-line  of  the  plains.  The  air  on  the  Blue  Mesa 
was  thin  and  keen;  warm  in  the  sun,  yet  instantly 
cool  at  dusk.  A  mountain  stream,  all  but  hidden  by 
the  grasses,  meandered  across  the  mesa  to  an  emer- 
ald hollow  of  coarse  marsh-grass.  A  few  yards  from 
this  pool,  and  on  its  southern  side,  stood  the  moun- 
tain cabin  of  the  Shoop  homestead,  a  roomy  build- 
ing of  logs,  its  wide,  easy-sloping  veranda  roof  cov- 
ered with  home-made  shakes.  Near  the  house  was  a 
small  corral  and  stable  of  logs.  Out  on  the  mesa  a  thin 
crop  of  oats  wavered  in  the  itinerant  breeze.  Round 
the  cabin  was  a  garden  plot  that  had  suffered  from 
want  of  attention.  Above  the  gate  to  the  door-yard 
was  a  weathered  sign  on  which  was  lettered  carefully : 

"  The  rose  is  red;  the  violet  blue; 
Please  shut  this  gate  when  you  come  through." 

145 


Tang  of  Life 

And  on  the  other  side  of  the  sign,  challenging  the 
possible  careU  ?sness  of  the  chance  visitor,  was  the 
legend :  — 

"  Now  y<>u  've  been  in  and  had  your  chuck, 
Please  close  this  gate,  just  once,  for  luck." 

Otherwise  the  place  was  like  any  mountain  home- 
stead of  the  better  sort,  viewed  from  without.  The 
interior  of  the  cabin,  however,  was  unusual  in  that 
it  boasted  of  being  the  only  music-room  within 
fifty  miles  in  any  direction. 

When  the  genial  Bud  had  been  overtaken  with 
the  idea  of  homesteading,  he  had  had  visions  of  a 
modest  success  which  would  allow  him  to  entertain 
his  erstwhile  cow-puncher  companions  when  they 
should  ride  his  way.  To  this  end  he  had  labored 
with  more  heart  than  judgment. 

The  main  room  was  large  and  lighted  by  two  un- 
usually large  windows.  The  dimensions  of  the  room 
were  ample  enough  to  accommodate  a  fair  number 
of  dancers.  Bud  knew  that  if  cowboys  loved  any- 
thing they  loved  to  dance.  The  phonograph  was  so 
common  that  it  offered  no  distinction  in  gracing 
Bud's  camp;  so  with  much  labor  and  expense  he 
had  freighted  an  upright  piano  from  the  distant 
railroad,  an  innovation  that  at  first  had  stunned  and 
then  literally  taken  the  natives  off  their  feet.  Rid- 
ers from  all  over  the  country  heard  of  Bud's  piano, 
questioned  its  reality,  and  finally  made  it  a  point  to 
jog  over  and  see  for  themselves. 

146 


Bondsman's  Decision 

For  a  time  Bud's  homestead  was  popular.  A  real 
piano,  fifty  miles  from  a  settlement,  was  something 
worth  riding  far  to  see.  But  respect  for  the  shining 
veneer  of  the  case  was  not  long-lived.  In  a  moment 
of  inspiration,  a  cowboy  pulled  out  his  jackknife 
and  carved  his  home  brand  on  the  shining  case.  Bud 
could  have  said  more  than  he  did  when  he  discov- 
ered it.  Later  another  contingent,  not  to  be  out- 
done, followed  this  cowboy's  incisive  example  and 
carved  its  brand  on  the  piano.  Naturally  it  became 
a  custom.  No  visitor  in  boots  and  chaps  left  the 
cabin  without  first  having  carved  some  brand. 

Bud  suffered  in  silence,  consoling  himself  with 
the  thought  that  while  there  were  many  pianos  in 
the  lower  country,  there  were  none  like  his.  And 
"As  long  as  you  don't  monkey  with  her  works  or 
shoot  her  up,"  he  told  his  friends,  "I  don't  care  how 
much  you  carve  her;  only  leave  enough  sidin'  and 
roof  to  hold  her  together." 

Cowboys  came,  danced  long  and  late  as  Bud 
pumped  the  mechanical  player,  and  thrilled  to  the 
shuffle  of  high-heeled  boots.  Contingent  after  con- 
tingent came,  danced,  and  departed  joyously,  leav- 
ing Bud  short  on  rations,  but  happy  that  he  could 
entertain  so  royally.  Finally  the  novelty  wore  off, 
and  Bud  was  left  with  his  Airedale,  his  saddle-ponies, 
and  the  hand-carved  piano. 

But  Bud  had  profited  by  the  innovation.  An 
Easterner  sojourning  with  Bud  for  a  season,  had 


Tang  of  Life 

taught  him  to  play  two  tunes  —  "Annie  Laurie " 
and  "Dixie."  "Real  hand-made  music,"  Bud  was 
wont  to  remark.  And  with  these  tunes  at  his  dis- 
posal he  was  more  than  content.  Many  a  long  even- 
ing he  sat  with  his  huge  bulk  swaying  in  the  light 
of  the  hanging  lamp  as  he  wandered  around  Max- 
welton's  braes  in  search  of  the  true  Annie  Laurie; 
or  hopped  with  heavy  sprightliness  across  the  sandy 
bottoms  of  Dixie,  while  Bondsman,  the  patient 
Airedale,  sat  on  his  haunches  and  accompanied  Bud 
with  dismal  energy. 

Bud  was  not  a  little  proud  of  his  accomplishment. 
The  player  was  all  right,  but  it  lacked  the  human 
touch.  Even  when  an  occasional  Apache  strayed  in 
and  borrowed  tobacco  or  hinted  at  a  meal,  Bud  was 
not  above  entertaining  the  wondering  red  man  with 
music.  And  Bud  disliked  Apaches. 

And  during  these  latter  days  Bud  had  had  plenty 
of  opportunity  to  indulge  himself  in  music.  For 
hours  he  would  sit  and  gently  strike  the  keys,  find- 
ing unexpected  harmonies  that  thrilled  and  puzzled 
him.  The  discords  did  n't  count.  And  Bondsman 
would  hunch  up  close  with  watchful  eye  and  one 
ear  cocked,  waiting  for  the  familiar  strains  of  "Annie 
Laurie"  or  "Dixie."  He  seemed  to  consider  these 
tunes  a  sort  of  accompaniment  to  his  song.  If  he 
dared  to  howl  when  Bud  was  extemporizing,  Bud 
would  rebuke  him  solemnly,  explaining  that  it  was 
not  considered  polite  in  the  best  circles  to  interrupt 

148 


Bondsman's  Decision 

a  soloist.  And  an  evening  was  never  complete  with- 
out "Annie  Laurie,"  and  "Dixie,"  with  Bondsman's 
mournful  contralto  gaining  ascendance  as  the  even- 
ing progressed. 

"That  dog  bosses  me  around  somethin*  scanda- 
lous," Bud  was  wont  to  remark,  as  he  rose  from  his 
labors  and  prepared  for  bed.  "There  I  was  huntin' 
around  for  that  chord  I  lit  on  the  other  night  and 
almost  findin'  it,  when  he  has  to  howl  like  a  coyote 
with  a  sore  throat  and  spile  the  whole  thing.  I 
ought  to  learned  more  tunes." 

It  was  almost  dusk  when  Lorry  topped  the  trail 
that  led  across  the  Blue  Mesa  to  Bud's  cabin.  Gray 
Leg  pricked  his  ears,  and  jogged  over  the  wide  level, 
heading  straight  for  the  corral.  The  cabin  was  dark. 
Lorry  hallooed.  A  horse  in  the  corral  answered, 
nickering  shrilly.  Lorry  found  some  loose  gramma 
grass  in  the  stable  and  threw  it  to  the  horse.  If  this 
was  Shoop's  place,  Shoop  would  not  be  gone  long,  or 
he  'd  have  turned  the  horse  to  graze  on  the  open  mesa. 

Lorry  entered  and  lighted  the  lamp.  He  gazed 
with  astonishment  at  the  piano.  But  that  could 
wait.  He  was  hungry.  In  a  few  minutes  he  had  a  fire 
going,  plates  laid  for  two,  had  made  coffee  and  cut 
bacon.  He  was  mixing  the  dough  for  hot  biscuit 
when  he  heard  some  one  ride  up.  He  stepped  to 
the  door.  A  bulky  figure  was  pulling  a  saddle  from 
a  horse.  Lorry  called  a  greeting. 

149 


Tang  of  Life 

"Just  a  minute,  friend,"  came  from  the  darkness. 

Lorry  stepped  to  the  kitchen,  and  put  the  biscuit 
pan  in  the  oven.  A  saddle  thumped  on  the  veranda, 
and  Bud  Shoop,  puffing  heavily,  strode  in.  He 
nodded,  filled  a  basin,  and  washed.  As  he  polished 
his  bald  spot,  his  glance  traveled  from  the  stove  to  the 
table,  and  thence  to  Lorry,  and  he  nodded  approval. 

"Looks  like  you  was  expectin'  comp'ny,"  he  said, 
smiling. 

"Yep.  And  chuck's  about  ready." 

"So  am  I,"  said  Bud,  rubbing  his  hands. 

"I'm  Adams,  from  Stacey." 

"That  don't  make  me  mad,"  said  Bud.  "How's 
things  over  to  your  town?" 

"All  right,  I  guess.   Mr.  Torrance — " 

Bud  waved  his  hand.  "Let's  eat.  Been  out  since 
daylight.  Them  biscuits  is  just  right.  Help  your- 
self to  the  honey." 

"There's  somebody  outside,"  said  Lorry,  his 
arm  raised  to  pass  the  honey  jar. 

"That's  my  dog,  Bondsman.  He  had  to  size  up 
your  layout,  and  he's  through  and  waitin'  to  size 
up  you.  Reckon  he's  hungry,  too.  But  business 
before  pleasure  is  his  idea  mostly.  He's  tellin' me  to 
let  him  in.  That  there  dog  bosses  me  around  some- 
thin'  scandalous.  When  did  you  get  in?" 

"About  sundown." 

"Uh-uh.  I  seen  that  your  horse  had  n't  grazed 
out  far  yet.  How  do  you  like  this  country?" 

150 


Bondsman's  Decision 

"Good  summer  country,  all  right.  Too  high  for 
stock  in  winter." 

"Yes.  Four  feet  of  snow  on  the  mesa  last  win- 
ter. When  you  say  'Arizona'  to  some  folks,  they 
don't  think  of  snow  so  deep  a  hoss  can't  get  from 
the  woods  over  there  to  this  cabin."  Bud  Shoop 
sighed  and  rose.  "Never  mind  them  dishes.  Morn- 
in'  '11  do." 

"Won't  take  a  minute,"  said  Lorry. 

Bud's  blue  eyes  twinkled  as  he  waddled  to  the 
living-room.  Young  Adams  was  handy  around  a 
kitchen.  He  had  laid  plates  for  two,  knew  how  to 
punch  dough,  was  willing  to  wash  the  dishes  with- 
out a  hint,  and  had  fed  the  horse  in  the  corral. 

"He  trots  right  along,  like  he  knew  where  he  was 
goin',"  Bud  said  to  himself.  "I  like  his  looks  — 
but  that  ain't  always  a  sign." 

Lorry  whistled  as  he  dried  the  dishes.  Bud  was 
seated  in  a  huge  armchair  when  Lorry  entered  the 
room.  Shoop  seemed  to  pay  no  attention  to  Bonds- 
man, who  whined  and  occasionally  scratched  on  the 
door. 

"Funny  thing  happened  this  mornin',"  said 
Shoop,  settling  himself  in  his  chair.  "I  was  ridin' 
down  the  ole  Milk  Ranch  Trail  when  I  looked  up 
and  seen  a  bobcat  lopin'  straight  for  me.  The  cat 
did  n't  see  me,  but  my  hoss  stopped,  waitin'  for  me 
to  shoot.  Well,  that  kittycat  come  right  along  till 
I  could  'a'  almost  roped  him.  Bondsman  —  that 's 

151 


Tang  of  Life 

my  dog  —  never  seen  him,  neither,  till  I  hollered. 
You  ought  to  seen  that  cat  start  back  without  losin' 
a  jump.  I  like  to  fell  off  the  hoss,  laughin'.  Bonds- 
man he  lit  out — " 

"I'll  let  him  in,"  said  Lorry,  moving  toward  the 
door. 

" — After  that  cat,"  continued  Shoop,  "but  the 
cat  never  treed,  I  reckon,  for  pretty  soon  back 
comes  Bondsman,  lookin'  as  disgusted  as  a  hen  in  a 
rainstorm.  'We're  gettin'  too  old,'  I  tells  Bonds- 


man — " 


"Ain't  you  goin'  to  let  him  in?"  queried  Lorry. 

" — We're  gettin'  too  old  to  chase  bobcats  just 
for  fun,"  concluded  Shoop.  "What  was  you  sayin'?" 

"Your  dog  wants  to  come  in." 

"That's  right.  Now  I  thought  you  was  listenin' 
to  me." 

"I  was.   But  ain't  he  hungry?" 

Shoop  chuckled.   "Let  him  in,  son." 

Lorry  opened  the  door.  Bondsman  stalked  in, 
sniffed  at  Lorry's  boots,  and  padded  to  the  kitchen. 

"What  do  you  feed  him?"  said  Lorry,  hesitating. 

"He  won't  take  nothin'  from  you,"  said  Shoop, 
heaving  himself  up.  "I've  had  him  since  he  was  a 
pup.  You  set  down  and  I'll  'tend  to  him. 

"And  I  says  to  him,"  said  Shoop,  as  he  returned 
to  his  chair,  —  "I  says,  'Bondsman,  that  there  cat 
was  just  passin'  the  buck  to  us  to  see  if  we  was 
game.'  And  he  ain't  got  over  it  yet." 


Bondsman's  Decision 

"I've  roped  'em,"  said  Lorry  —  "roped  'em  out 
of  a  tree." 

"Uh-uh.   Where 'd  you  learn  to  rope?" 

"At  the  Starr  Ranch.  I  worked  there  once." 

"Git  tired  of  it?"' 

"Nope.   I  had  a  argument  with  the  foreman." 

"Uh-uh.  I  reckon  it  ain't  hard  to  pick  a  fuss  with 
High  Chin." 

"I  was  n't  lookin'  for  a  fuss.  It  was  his  funeral." 

"So  I  heard;  all  but  the  procession." 

"And  that's  why  I  came  up  to  see  you.  Mr.  Tor- 
ranee  told  me  to  hunt  you  up." 

"He  did,  eh?  Well,  now,  John  sure  gets  queer 
idees.  I  don't  need  a  man  round  here." 

"I  was  after  a  job  in  the  Service." 

"And  he  sends  you  to  me.  Why,  I  ain't  ever 
worked  a  day  for  the  Service." 

"I  guess  he  wanted  you  to  look  me  over,"  said 
Lorry,  smiling. 

"Well,  they 's  lots  of  time,  'less  you're  in  a  hurry." 

"If  I  can't  get  in  the  Service,  I'll  look  up  a  job 
punchin',"  said  Lorry.  "I  got  to  get  somethin'." 

Bondsman  stalked  in,  licking  his  chops.  He  nuz- 
zled Shoop's  hand.  Lorry  snapped  his  fingers.  Bonds- 
man strode  to  him.  Lorry  patted  his  knee.  The  big 
dog  crouched  and  sprang  to  Lorry's  knees,  where  he 
sat,  studying  him  quizzically,  his  head  to  one  side, 
his  keen  eyes  blinking  in  the  lamplight.  Lorry 
laughed  and  patted  the  dog. 

153 


Tang  of  Life 

"He's  trying  to  get  my  number,"  said  Lorry. 

"He's  got  it,"  said  Shoop.  "You  could  'a'  snapped 
your  fingers  off  afore  he'd  'a*  come  nigh  you,  'less 
he  wanted  to.  And  while  we're  talkin'  about  it, 
you  can  tell  John  Torrance  I  said  to  give  you  a  try." 

Lorry  sat  up  quickly.  "Guess  you  didn't  know 
that  Buck  Hardy  is  lookin'  for  me,"  said  Lorry. 
"Mr.  Torrance  says  I  got  to  square  myself  with 
Buck  afore  I  get  the  job." 

"He  did,  eh?  Well,  speakin'  of  Buck,  how  would 
you  like  to  hear  a  little  talk  from  a  real  music-box?" 

"Fine!" 

Shoop  waddled  to  the  piano.  "I  ain't  no  reg'lar 
music  sharp,"  he  explained  unnecessarily,  "but  I 
got  a  couple  of  pieces  broke  to  go  polite.  This  here 
piano  is  cold-mouthed,  and  you  got  to  rein  her  just 
right  or  she'll  buffalo  you.  This  here  piece  is  'Annie 
Laurie.'  " 

As  Bud  struck  the  first  note,  Bondsman  leaped 
from  Lorry's  knees  and  took  his  place  beside  the 
piano.  The  early  dew  had  just  begun  to  fall  when 
Bondsman  joined  in.  Lorry  grinned.  The  dog  and 
his  master  were  absolutely  serious  in  their  efforts. 
As  the  tune  progressed,  Lorry's  grin  faded,  and  he 
sat  gazing  intently  at  the  huge  back  of  his  host. 

:<  Why,  he  's  playin*  like  he  meant  it,"  thought 
Lorry.  "And  folks  says  Bud  Shoop  was  a  regular 
top-hand  stem-winder  in  his  day." 

Shoop  labored  at  the  piano  with  nervous  care. 

154. 


Bondsman's  Decision 

When  he  turned  to  Lorry  his  face  was  beaded  with 
sweat. 

"I  rode  her  clean  through  to  the  fence,"  he  said, 
with  a  kind  of  apologetic  grin.  "How  did  you  like 
that  piece?" 

"I  always  did  like  them  old  tunes,"  replied  Lorry. 
"Give  us  another." 

Snoop's  face  beamed.  "I  only  got  one  more  that 
I  can  get  my  rope  on.  But  if  you  can  stand  it,  I  can. 
This  here  one  is  'Dixie.'  " 

And  Bud  straightened  his  broad  shoulders,  pushed 
back  his  sleeves,  and  waded  across  the  sandy  bot- 
toms of  Dixie,  hitting  the  high  spots  with  staccato 
vehemence,  as  though  Dixie  had  recently  suffered 
from  an  inundation  and  he  was  in  a  hurry  to  get  to 
dry  land.  Bondsman's  moody  baritone  reached  up 
and  up  with  sad  persistency. 

Lorry  was  both  amused  and  astonished.  Shoop's 
intensity,  his  real  love  for  music,  was  a  revelation. 
Lorry  felt  like  smiling,  yet  he  did  not  smile.  Bud 
Shoop  could  not  play,  but  his  personality  forced  its 
own  recognition,  even  through  the  absurd  medium 
of  an  untutored  performance  on  that  weird  upright 
piano.  Lorry  began  to  realize  that  there  was  some- 
thing more  to  Bud  Shoop  than  mere  bulk. 

Bud  swung  round,  puffing.  "I  got  that  tune  where 
I  can  keep  her  in  sight  as  long  as  she  lopes  on  the 
level.  But  when  she  takes  to  jumpin'  stumps  and 
makin'  them  quick  turns,  I  sure  have  to  do  some 

155 


Tang  of  Life 

hard  ridin*  to  keep  her  from  losin*  herself.  Me  and 
Bondsman's  been  worryin'  along  behind  them  two 
tunes  for  quite  a  spell.  I  reckon  I  ought  to  started 
in  younger.  But,  anyhow,  that  there  piano  is  right 
good  comp'ny.  When  I  been  settin'  here  alone, 
nights,  and  feelin'  out  her  paces,  I  get  so  het  up  and 
interested  that  I  don't  know  the  fire's  out  till  Bonds- 
man takes  to  shiverin'  and  whinin'  and  tellin'  me 
he'd  like  to  get  some  sleep  afore  mornin'." 

And  Bondsman,  now  that  the  music  had  stopped, 
stalked  to  Lorry  and  eyed  him  with  an  expression 
which  said  plainly:  "It's  his  weak  spot  —  this  music. 
You  will  have  to  overlook  it.  He's  really  a  rather 
decent  sort  of  person." 

"I  got  a  mechanical  player  in  the  bedroom,"  said 
Shoop.  "And  a  reg'lar  outfit  of  tunes  for  dances." 

Lorry  was  tempted  to  ask  to  hear  it,  but  changed 
his  mind.  "I've  heard  them  players.  They're  sure 
good  for  a  dance,  but  I  like  real  playin'  better." 

Bud  Shoop  grinned.  "That's  the  way  with  Bonds- 
man here.  Now  he  won't  open  his  head  to  one  of 
them  paper  tunes.  I've  tried  'em  all  on  him.  You 
can't  tell  me  a  dog  ain't  got  feelin's." 


Chapter  XV 
John  and  Demijohn 

THE  grass  on  the  high  mesa  was  heavy 
with  dew  when  Lorry  stepped  from  the 
cabin  next  morning.  His  pony,  Gray  Leg, 
stood  close  to  the  corral,  where  Shoop's  horses  were 
playfully  biting  at  him  over  the  bars.  Lorry  un- 
hobbled  Gray  Leg  and  turned  Shoop's  horses  out  to 
water.  The  three  ponies  trotted  to  the  water-hole, 
sniffed  at  the  water,  and,  whirling,  raced  across 
the  mesa,  pitching  and  kicking  in  the  joy  of  liber- 
ation. 

After  breakfast  Bud  and  Lorry  sat  out  in  the  sun, 
enjoying  the  slow  warmth.  The  morning  air  was 
still  keen  in  the  shade.  Bondsman  lay  between  them, 
watching  the  distant  horses. 

"He  won't  let  'em  get  far  into  the  timber,"  said 
Shoop.  "He  sure  saves  me  a  lot  of  steps,  roundin' 
up  them  bosses." 

"I  can  whistle  Gray  Leg  to  me,"  said  Lorry. 
"Then  the  other  horses '11  come." 

Shoop  nodded.   "What  you  goin'  to  do  to-day?" 

"Me?  Well,  it's  so  kind  of  quiet  and  big  up  here 
I  feel  like  settin'  around  and  takin'  it  all  in.  I  ain't 
been  in  the  high  country  much.  'Course  I  don't 
aim  to  camp  on  you." 

157 


Tang  of  Life 

"You're  sure  welcome,"  said  Shoop  heartily.  "It 
gets  lonesome  up  here.  But  if  you  ain't  got  no 
reg'lar  plan  I  was  thmkin'  of  ridin'  over  to  Sheep 
Crossin'  —  and  mebby  on  down  to  Jason." 

"Suits  me  fine!" 

Shoop  heaved  himself  up.  Lorry  whistled  shrilly. 
Gray  Leg,  across  the  mesa,  raised  his  head.  Lorry 
whistled  again.  The  pony  lowered  his  head  and 
nipped  at  the  bunch-grass  as  he  moved  slowly  to- 
ward the  house.  Snoop's  horses  watched  him,  and 
finally  decided  that  they  would  follow.  Gray  Leg 
stopped  just  out  of  reach. 

"Get  in  the  corral,  there!"  said  Lorry,  waving  his 
arm. 

The  pony  shied  and  trotted  into  the  corral,  the 
other  horses  following. 

Bondsman  was  not  exactly  disgruntled,  but  he 
might  have  been  happier.  Shoop  had  told  him  to 
"keep  house"  until  they  returned. 

"It's  a  funny  thing,"  said  Shoop  as  he  mounted. 
"Now,  if  I  was  to  tell  that  dog  he  was  gettin'  too 
old  to  ramble  with  me,  he'd  feel  plumb  sick  and  no 
account.  But  when  I  tell  him  he's  got  to  do  some- 
thin' —  like  watchin'  the  house  —  he  thinks  it's  a 
reg'lar  job.  He's  gettin'  old,  but,  just  like  folks,  he 
wants  to  think  he's  some  use.  You  can't  tell  me  dogs 
don't  know.  Why,  I've  seen  young  folks  so  durned 
fussy  about  their  grandmas  and  grandpas,  trying 
to  keep  'em  from  putterin'  around,  that  the  old 

[158 


John  and  Demijohn 

folks  just  nacherally  folded  their  hands  and  set 
down  and  died,  havin'  nothin'  else  to  do.  And  a  dog 
is  right  proud  about  bein'  able  to  do  somethin'. 
Bondsman  there  keeps  me  so  busy  thinkin'  of  how 
I  can  keep  him  busy  that  I  ain't  got  time  to  shine 
my  boots.  That  there  dog  bosses  me  around  some- 
thin'  scandalous." 

"That's  right,"  acquiesced  Lorry.  "I  seen  a  ole 
mule  once  that  they  turned  loose  from  a  freight 
wagon  because  he  was  too  old  to  pull  his  own  weight. 
And  that  mule  just  followed  the  string  up  and  down 
the  hills  and  across  the  sand,  doin'  his  best  to  tell 
the  skinner  that  he  wanted  to  get  back  into  the  har- 
ness. He  would  run  alongside  the  other  mules,  and 
try  to  get  back  in  his  old  place.  They  would  just 
naturally  kick  him,  and  he'd  turn  and  try  to  wallop 
'em  back.  Then  he'd  walk  along,  with  his  head 
hangin'  down  and  his  ears  floppin',  as  if  he  was 
plumb  sick  of  bein'  free  and  wanted  to  die.  The  last 
day  he  was  too  stiff  to  get  on  his  feet,  so  me  and 
Jimmy  Harp  heaved  him  up  while  the  skinner  was 
gettin'  the  chains  on  the  other  mules.  That  ole  mule 
was  sure  wabblin'  like  a  duck,  but  he  come  aside  his 
ole  place  and  followed  along  all  day.  We  was  freight- 
in'  in  to  camp,  back  in  the  Horseshoe  Hills.  You 
know  that  grade  afore  you  get  to  the  mesa?  Well, 
the  ole  mule  pulled  the  grade,  sweatin'  and  puffin* 
like  he  was  pullin'  the  whole  load.  And  I  guess  he 
was,  in  his  mind.  Anyhow,  he  got  to  the  top,  and 

159 


Tang  of  Life 

laid  down  and  died.  Mules  sure  like  to  work.  Now 
a  horse  would  have  fanned  it." 

Shoop  nodded.  "I  never  seen  a  animile  too  lazy 
to  work  if  it  was  only  gettin'  his  grub  and  exercise. 
But  I've  seen  a  sight  of  folks  too  lazy  to  do  that 
much.  Why,  some  folks  is  so  dog-gone  no  account 
they  got  to  git  killed  afore  folks  ever  knowed  they 
was  livin'.  Then  they's  some  folks  so  high-chinned 
they  can't  see  nothin'  but  the  stars  when  they'd  do 
tollable  well  if  they  would  follow  a  good  hoss  or  a 
dog  around  and  learn  how  to  live  human.  But  this 
ain't  gettin'  nowhere,  and  the  sun's  keepin'  right 
along  doin'  business." 

They  rode  across  the  beautiful  Blue  Mesa,  and 
entered  the  timberlands,  following  a  ranger  trail 
through  the  shadowy  silences.  At  the  lower  level, 
they  came  upon  another  mesa  through  which  wound 
a  mountain  stream.  And  along  a  stream  ran  the 
trail,  knee-high  in  grass  on  either  side. 

Far  below  them  lay  the  plains  country,  its  hazy 
reaches  just  visible  over  the  tree-tops.  Where  the 
mountain  stream  merged  with  a  deeper  stream  the 
ground  was  barren  and  dotted  with  countless  tracks 
of  cattle  and  sheep.  This  was  Sheep  Crossing,  a  nat- 
ural pass  where  the  cattlemen  and  sheepmen  drifted 
their  stock  from  the  hills  to  the  winter  feeding- 
grounds  of  the  lower  country.  It  was  a  checking 
point  for  the  rangers;  the  gateway  to  the  hills. 

The  thin  mountain  air  was  hot.    The  unbridled 

160 


John  and  Dem\john 

ponies  drank  eagerly,  and  were  allowed  to  graze.  The 
men  moved  over  to  the  shade  of  a  blue-topped  spruce. 
As  Lorry  was  about  to  sit  down  he  picked  an  empty 
whiskey  bottle  from  the  grass,  turned  the  label  to- 
ward Shoop,  and  grinned.  He  tossed  the  bottle  into 
the  edge  of  the  timber. 

Shoop  rolled  a  cigarette,  and  Lorry  squatted  be- 
side him.  Presently  Snoop's  voice  broke  the  indolent 
silence  of  noon:  "Just  why  did  you  chuck  that  bottle 
over  there?" 

"I  don't  know.  Horse  might  step  on  it  and  cut 
himself." 

"Yes.  But  you  chucked  it  like  you  was  mad  at 
somethin'.  Would  you  thrun  it  away  if  it  was  full?" 

"I  don'  know.  I  might  'a'  smelt  of  it  to  see  if  it  was 
whiskey  or  kerosene  some  herder  forgot." 

"It's  right  curious  how  a  fella  will  smell  of  a  bot- 
tle to  see  what's  in  it  or  what's  been  in  it.  Most  folks 
does  that.  I  guess  you  know  what  whiskey  smells 
like." 

"Oh,  some;  with  the  boys  once  or  twice.  I  never 
did  get  to  like  it  right  well." 

Shoop  nodded.  "I  ain't  what  you'd  call  a  drinkin' 
man  myself,  but  I  started  out  that  way.  I  been  tor- 
able  well  lit  up  at  times.  But  temperance  folks  what 
never  took  a  drink  can  tell  you  more  about  whiskey 
than  I  can.  Now  that  there  empty  bottle,  a  hundred 
and  thirty  miles  from  a  whiskey  town,  kind  of  set  me 
thinkin'.5' 

Jdl 


Tang  of  Life 

tony  leaned  back  against  the  spruce  and  watched 
a  hawk  float  in  easy  circles  round  the  blue  emptiness 
above.  He  felt  physically  indolent;  at  one  with  the 
silences.  Shoop's  voice  came  to  him  clearly,  but  as 
though  from  a  distance,  and  as  Shoop  talked  Lorry 
visualized  the  theme,  forgetting  where  he  was  in  the 
vivid  picture  the  old  ex-cowboy  sketched  in  the  rough 
dialect  of  the  range. 

"I  've  did  some  thinkin'  in  my  time,  but  not  enough 
to  keep  me  awake  nights,"  said  Shoop,  pushing  back 
his  hat.  "That  there  whiskey  bottle  kind  of  set  me 
back  to  where  I  was  about  your  years  and  some 
lively.  Long  about  then  I  knowed  two  fellas  called 
'John'  and  'Demijohn.'  John  was  young  and  a  right 
good  cow-hand.  Demijohn  was  old,  but  he  was  al- 
ways dressed  up  like  he  was  young,  and  he  acted  right 
lively.  Some  folks  thought  he  was  young.  They  met 
up  at  a  saloon  down  along  the  Sante  Fe.  They  got 
acquainted,  and  had  a  high  ole  time. 

"That  evenin',  as  John  was  leavin'  to  go  back  to 
the  ranch,  Demijohn  tells  him  he'll  see  him  later. 
John  remembers  that.  They  met  up  ag'in.  And 
finally  John  got  to  lookin'  for  Demijohn,  and  if  he 
did  n't  show  up  reg'lar  John  would  set  out  and  chase 
Demijohn  all  over  the  country,  afoot  and  ahorse- 
back, and  likin'  his  comp'ny  more  every  time  they 
met. 

"Now,  tnis  nere  Demijohn,  who  was  by  rights  a 
city  fella,  got  to  takin'  to  the  timber  and  the  mesas, 

!M 


John  and  Demijohn 

with  John  followin'  him  around  lively.  Ole  Demi- 
john would  set  in  the  shade  of  a  tree  —  no  tellin'  how 
he  got  there  —  and  John  would  ride  up  and  light 
down;  when  mebby  Demijohn  would  start  off  to 
town,  bein'  empty,  and  John  after  him  like  hell  was  n't 
hot  enough  'less  he  sweat  runnin'.  And  that  young 
John  would  ride  clean  to  town  just  to  say  'How'  to 
that  ole  hocus.  And  it  come  that  John  got  to  payin' 
more  attention  to  Demijohn  than  he  did  to  punchin* 
cows.  Then  come  a  day  when  John  got  sick  of  chasm* 
Demijohn  all  over  the  range,  and  he  quit. 

"But  the  first  thing  he  knowed,  Demijohn  was  a 
chasin'  him.  Every  time  John  rode  in  and  throwed 
off  his  saddle  there  'd  be  ole  Demijohn,  settin'  in  the 
corner  of  the  corral  or  under  his  bunk  or  out  in  the 
box  stall,  smilin'  and  waitin'.  Finally  Demijohn  got 
to  followin'  John  right  into  the  bunk-house,  and  John 
tryin'  his  durndest  to  keep  out  of  sight. 

"One  evenin',  when  John  was  loafin'  in  the  bunk- 
house,  ole  Demijohn  crawls  up  to  his  bunk  and  asks 
him,  whisperin',  if  he  ain't  most  always  give  John 
a  good  time  when  they  met  up.  John  cussed,  but 
'lowed  that  Demijohn  was  right.  Then  Demijohn 
took  to  pullin'  at  young  John's  sleeve  and  askin'  him 
to  come  to  town  and  have  a  good  time.  Pretty  soon 
John  gets  up  and  saddles  his  cayuse  and  fans  it  for 
town.  And  that  time  him  and  Demijohn  sure  had 
one  whizzer  of  a  time.  But  come  a  week  later,  when 
John  gits  back  to  the  ranch,  the  boss  is  sore  and  fires 

163 


Tang  of  Life 

him.  Then  John  gits  sore  at  the  boss  and  at  himself 
and  at  Demijohn  and  the  whole  works.  So  he  saddles 
up  and  rides  over  to  town  to  have  it  out  with  Demi- 
john for  losin'  a  good  job.  But  he  could  n't  lick  Demi- 
john right  there  in  town  nohow.  Demijohn  was  too 
frequent  for  him. 

"When  young  John  wakes  up  next  mornin'  he  is 
layin'  under  a  tree,  mighty  sick.  He  sees  he  is  up  on 
the  high  mesa,  but  he  don'  know  how  he  got  there; 
only  his  pony  is  grazin'  near  by,  with  reins  all  tromped 
and  the  saddle  'way  up  on  his  withers.  John  sets  up 
and  rubs  his  eyes,  and  there  he  sees  ole  Demijohn 
settin'  in  the  grass  chucklin'  to  hisself ,  and  his  back 
is  turned  to  young  John,  for  he  don't  care  nohow  for 
a  fella  when  he  is  sick.  Ole  Demijohn  is  always  feelin* 
good,  no  matter  how  his  friends  feel.  Well,  young 
John  thinks  a  while,  and  pretty  soon  he  moseys  over 
to  a  spring  and  gets  a  big,  cold  drink  and  washes  his 
head,  and  feels  better. 

"He  never  knowed  that  just  plain  water  tasted  so 
good  till  that  mornin'.  Then  he  sets  awhile,  smellin* 
of  the  clean  pine  air  and  listenin'  to  the  wind  runnin' 
loose  in  the  tree-tops  and  watchin'  the  clouds  driftin' 
by,  white  and  clean  and  proud-like.  Pretty  soon  he 
rares  up  and  walks  over  to  the  tree  where  ole  Demi- 
john sets  rockin'  up  and  down  and  chucklin'.  He  takes 
a  holt  of  Demijohn  by  the  shoulder,  and  he  says: 
'You  darned  ole  hocus,  you,  I  lost  my  job,  and  I'm 
broke,  lopin'  around  this  country  with  you.' 

164 


John  and  Demijohn 

"'Forget  it!'  says  ole  Demijohn.  'Ain't  I  good 
comp'ny?' 

"'Mebby  you  be  —  for  some  folks,'  says  young 
John.  'But  not  for  me.  You  don't  belong  up  in  this 
here  country;  you  belong  back  in  town,  and  I  reckon 
you  better  fan  it.' 

"Ole  Demijohn  he  laughed.  'You  can't  run  me  off 
the  range  that  easy,'  he  says. 

'"I  can't,  eh?'  says  young  John,  and  he  pulls  his 
gun  and  up  and  busts  ole  Demijohn  over  the  head. 
Then,  bein'  a  likely  young  fella,  he  shuts  his  jaw  tight 
and  fans  it  back  to  the  ranch.  The  fo'man  is  some 
surprised  to  see  him  come  ridin'  up,  whistlin'  like  he 
owned  the  works.  Fellas  what's  fired  mostly  looks 
for  work  some  place  else.  But  young  John  got  the  idee 
that  he  owed  it  to  hisself  to  make  good  where  he 
started  as  a  cow-hand.  'I  busted  my  ole  friend  Demi- 
john over  the  head,'  he  says  to  the  fo'man.  'We 
ain't  friends  no  more.' 

"The  fo'man  he  grins.  'All  right,  Jack,'  he  says. 
'But  if  I  see  him  hangin'  round  the  corrals  ag'in,  or  in 
the  bunk-house,  you  need  n't  to  wait  for  me  to  tell 
you  which  way  is  north.' 

"Well,  young  John  had  done  a  good  job.  'Course 
ole  Demijohn  used  to  come  sneakin'  round  in  the 
moonlight,  once  in  a  spell,  botherin'  some  of  the  boys, 
but  he  stayed  clear  of  young  John.  And  young  John 
he  took  to  ridin'  straight  and  hard  and  'tendin'  to 
business.  I  ain't  sayin'  he  ever  got  to  be  president  or 

165 


Tang  of  Lite 

superintendent  of  a  Sunday  School,  for  this  ain't  no 
story-book  yarn;  but  he  always  held  a  good  job  when 
he  wanted  it,  and  he  worked  for  a  good  boss  —  which 
was  hisself." 

Lorry  grinned  as  he  turned  to  Shoop.  "That  ole 
Demijohn  never  got  close  enough  to  me  to  get  busted 
on  the  head." 

"Them  bosses  is  strayin'  down  the  creek,"  said 
Shoop,  rising. 

They  turned  and  rode  north,  somewhat  to  Lorry's 
surprise.  The  trail  was  ragged  and  steep,  and  led  from 
the  mesa  to  the  canon  bottom  of  the  White  River. 
Before  Lorry  realized  where  they  were,  Jason  loomed 
before  them  on  the  mesa  below. 

"She's  a  quick  trail  to  town  in  summer,"  explained 
Shoop.  "Snow  hangs  too  heavy  in  the  canon  to  ride 
it  in  winter." 

At  Jason  they  tied  their  horses,  and  entered  the 
ranger's  office.  Lorry  waited  while  Shoop  talked  with 
Torrance  in  the  private  office.  Presently  Shoop  came 
to  the  door  and  gestured  to  Lorry. 

"Mr.  Shoop  says  he  thinks  you  could  qualify  for 
the  Service,!'  Torrance  said.  '*  We  will  waive  the 
matter  of  recommendations  from  the  Starr  people. 
But  there  is  one  thing  I  can't  do.  I  can't  hire  a  man 
who  is  wanted  by  the  authorities.  There's  a  deputy 
sheriff  in  town  with  a  warrant  for  you.  That  is  strictly 
your  affair.  If  you  can  square  yourself  with  the  dep- 
uty, I  '11  put  you  to  work." 

166 


John  and  Demijohn 

"I'll  go  see  what  he  wants,"  said  Lorry. 

"He  wants  you.  Understand,  you'll  only  jeop- 
ardize your  chances  by  starting  a  row." 

"They  won't  be  a  row,"  said  Lorry. 

When  he  returned  he  was  accompanied  by  the 
deputy.  Lorry  took  his  stand  without  parley. 

"I  want  to  ask  you  folks  a  question,  and  then  I'm 
through,"  he  asserted.  "Will  you  listen  to  what  he 
says  and  what  I  say,  and  then  say  who  is  right?" 

"That  might  not  settle  it,"  said  Torrance.  "But 
go  ahead." 

"Then  all  I  got  to  say  is,  was  I  right  or  wrong  when 
I  turned  that  hobo  loose  and  saved  him  from  gettin' 
beat  up  by  High  Chin  and  the  boys,  and  mebby 
strung  up,  afore  they  got  through?" 

"Morally  you  were  right,"  said  Torrance.  "But 
you  should  have  appealed  to  Sheriff  Hardy  to  guard 
his  prisoner." 

"That's  all  right,  Mr.  Torrance.  But  suppose  they 
was  n't  time.  And  suppose,  —  now  Buck's  deputy 
is  here  to  listen  to  it,  —  suppose  I  was  to  say  that 
Buck  is  scared  to  death  of  High-Chin  Bob.  Every- 
body knows  it." 

The  deputy  flushed.  He  knew  that  Lorry  spoke 
the  truth. 

Torrance  turned  to  Shoop.  "What  do  you  think, 
Bud?" 

Bud  coughed  and  shrugged  his  heavy  shoulders. 
"Bein'  as  I'm  drug  into  this,  I  say  the  boy  did  a  good 

167 


Tang  of  Life 

job  and  he's  right  about  Hardy,  which  you  can  tell 
him,"  he  added,  turning  to  the  deputy. 

"Then  that's  all  I  got  to  say,"  and  Lorry  pushed 
back  his  hat  and  rumpled  his  hair. 

The  deputy  was  not  there  to  argue.  He  had  been 
sent  to  get  Lorry. 

"I  don't  say  he  ain't  right.  But  how  about  my  job 
if  I  ride  back  to  Stacey  with  nothin'  to  show  for  the 
trip  but  my  expense  card?" 

"Buck  Hardy  is  n't  a  fool,"  said  Torrance. 

"Oh,  hell!"  said  Lorry,  turning  to  the  deputy. 
"I'll  go  back  with  you.  I'm  sick  of  jawin'  about  the 
right  and  the  wrong  and  who 's  to  blame.  But  I  want 
to  say  in  company  that  I'll  go  just  as  far  as  the 
county  line  of  this  county.  You're  south  of  your 
county.  If  you  can  get  me  across  the  line,  I  '11  go  on  to 
Stacey." 

Bud  Shoop  mopped  his  face  with  a  bandanna.  He 
was  not  overhot,  but  he  wanted  to  hide  the  grin  that 
spread  over  his  broad  countenance.  He  imagined  he 
could  see  the  deputy  just  about  the  time  they  ar- 
rived at  the  county  line,  and  the  mental  picture 
seemed  to  amuse  him. 

"The  idee  is,  the  kid  thinks  he's  right,"  said  Shoop 
presently.  "Speakin'  personal,  I  never  monkey  with 
a  man  when  he  thinks  he's  right  —  and  he  is." 

"All  I  got  to  go  by  is  the  law,"  asserted  the  dep- 
uty. "As  for  Adams  here  sayin'  I  won't  run  him  in, 
I  got  orders  to  do  it,  and  them  orders  goes." 

168 


John  and  Demijohn 

"Adams  has  applied  for  a  position  in  the  Service," 
said  Torrance. 

"I  ain't  got  anything  against  Lorry  personal," 
said  the  deputy. 

"Then  just  you  ride  back  an5  tell  Buck  Hardy  that 
Bud  Shoop  says  he'll  stand  responsible  for  Adams 
keepin'  the  peace  in  Jason  County,  same  as  I  stood, 
responsible  for  Buck  oncet  down  in  the  Panhandle. 
Buck  will  remember,  all  right." 

"Can't  you  give  me  a  letter  to  Buck,  explainin* 
things?"  queried  the  deputy. 

Bud  glanced  at  Torrance.  "I  think  we  can,"  said 
the  supervisor. 

Lorry  stepped  to  the  door  with  the  deputy.  There 
was  no  personal  feeling  evident  as  they  shook  hands. 

"You  could  tell  ma  to  send  down  my  clothes  by 
stage,"  said  Lorry. 

Shoop  and  Torrance  seemed  to  be  enjoying  them- 
selves. 

"I  put  hi  my  say,"  said  Bud,  "  'cause  I  kind  of  like 
the  kid.  And  I  reckon  I  saved  that  deputy  a  awful 
wallopin*.  When  a  fella  like  young  Adams  talks 
pleasant  and  chokes  his  hat  to  death  at  the  same  time 
you  can  watch  out  for  somethin'  to  fall." 

"Do  you  think  Adams  would  have  had  it  out  with 
him?" 

"He'd  'a'  rode  along  a  spell,  like  he  said.  Mebby 
just  this  side  of  the  county  line  he'd  'a'  told  the 
deputy  which  way  was  north.  And  if  the  deputy 

169 


Tang  of  Life 

did  n't  take  the  hint,  I  reckon  Adams  would  'a'  lit 
into  him.  I  knowed  Adams's  daddy  afore  he  mar- 
ried Annie  Adams  and  went  to  live  in  Sonora." 

"Then  you  knew  that  his  father  was  Jim  War- 
ing?" 

"'I  sure  did.  And  I  reckon  I  kep'  somebody  from 
gettin'  a  awful  wallopin5.  I  was  a  kid  oncet  myself." 


Chapter  XVI 
Play 


^~  ""^HE  installation  of  Bud  Shoop  as  supervisor 
of  the  White  Mountain  District  was  cele- 

-l  brated  with  an  old-fashioned  barbecue  by 
the  cattlemen  and  sheepmen  leasing  on  the  reserve. 
While  John  Torrance  had  always  dealt  fairly  with 
them,  the  natives  felt  that  he  was  more  or  less  of  a 
theorist  in  the  matter  of  grazing-leases.  Shoop  was 
a  practical  cowman;  one  of  themselves.  Naturally 
there  was  some  dissatisfaction  expressed  by  dis- 
gruntled individuals  who  envied  Shoop's  good  for- 
tune. But  this  was  overwhelmed  by  the  tide  of  popu- 
lar acclaim  with  which  Shoop  was  hailed  as  a  just 
administrator  of  their  grazing-rights. 

The  barbecue  was  a  boisterous  success.  Although 
the  day  of  large  holdings  was  past,  the  event  lacked 
nothing  in  numbers  or  enthusiasm.  The  man  who 
owned  a  hundred  head  of  cattle  was  quite  as  popular 
as  his  neighbor  who  owned  perhaps  eight  hundred  or 
a  thousand.  Outfits  fraternized,  ran  pony  races, 
roped  for  prizes,  and  rode  bucking  horses,  as  their 
predecessors  had  raced,  roped,  and  "rode  'em"  in  the 
days  of  old. 

Lorry,  itching  to  enter  the  roping  contest,  was 
checked  by  a  suggestion  from  the  genial  Bud. 

171 


Tang  of  Life 

"I've  heard  you  was  top-hand  with  a  rope.  But 
you're  a  ranger,  by  the  grace  of  God  and  me  and 
John  Torrance.  Let  the  boys  play,  but  don't  play 
with  'em  yet.  Keep  'em  guessin'  just  how  good  you 
are.  Let  'em  get  to  know  you  slow  —  and  solid." 

Lorry  accepted  Bud's  advice,  and  made  himself 
popular  with  the  various  outfits  by  maintaining  a 
silence  when  questioned  as  to  how  he  "put  High- 
Chin  Bob  out  of  business."  The  story  of  that  affair 
had  had  a  wide  circulation,  and  gained  interest  when 
it  became  known  that  High  Chin  and  his  men  were 
present.  Their  excuse  for  coming  was  only  legitimate 
in  that  a  barbecue  draws  no  fine  lines  of  distinction. 
Any  one  who  has  a  horse  and  an  appetite  is  welcome. 
The  Starr  riders  were  from  the  northern  county,  but 
they  would  have  been  quite  as  welcome  had  they  come 
from  Alaska. 

Bud  Shoop  was  present  in  a  suit  of  religiously 
severe  black,  his  pants  outside  his  boots.  He  had 
donned  a  white  shirt  and  knotted  a  black  silk  ban- 
danna round  his  short  neck. 

The  morning  was  noisy  with  pony  races,  roping 
contests,  and  the  riding  of  pitching  horses.  The 
events  were  not  tabulated,  but  evolved  through  the 
unwritten  law  of  precedent. 

After  the  noon  feast  there  was  talk  of  a  shooting- 
match.  Few  of  the  local  men  packed  guns,  and  none 
of  them  openly.  The  Starr  riders  were  the  only  excep- 
tion. This  fact  was  commented  upon  by  some  of  the 

172 


Play 

old-timers,  who  finally  accosted  Bud  with  the  sug- 
gestion that  he  "show  that  Starr  outfit  what  a  gun 
was  made  for."  Bud  declined. 

"I  ain't  had  a  gun  in  my  hand,  except  to  clean  it, 
since  I  quit  punchin',"  he  told  them.  "And,  anyhow, 
I'm  no  fancy  gun  sharp." 

"High  Chin  and  his  outfit  is  sure  handin'  it  to  us," 
complained  the  old-timers.  "And  you're  about  the 
only  man  here  who  could  show  'em." 

"No  use  provin'  it  to  'em  when  they  know  it," 
Bud  said. 

The  committee  retired  and  consulted  among  them- 
selves. Bud  was  talking  with  a  cattleman  when  they 
again  accosted  him. 

"Say,  Bud,  them  Starr  boys  has  cleaned  us  out  on 
ropin'  and  racin'.  We  trimmed  'em  on  ridin'.  Now 
that  makes  two  to  one,  and  we're  askin'  you  as  a  old- 
timer  if  we're  goin'  to  let  them  fellas  ride  north 
a-tellin'  every  hay-tosser  atween  here  and  Stacey 
that  we're  a  bunch  of  jays?" 

"Oh,  shucks!"  was  all  Bud  had  to  say. 

"And  that  High-Chin  Bob  says  he  aims  to  hang 
young  Adams's  scalp  on  his  belt  afore  he  gits  through," 
asserted  a  townsman. 

"I'll  set  in  the  game,"  said  Bud. 

And  he  waddled  across  the  street  to  his  office.  In 
a  few  minutes  he  came  back  and  mingled  with  the 
crowd.  The  Starr  boys  were  pitching  dollars  at  a 
mark  when  Bud  and  a  companion  strolled  past. 


Tang  of  Life 

High  Chin  invited  Shoop  to  join  in  the  game.  Shoop 
declined  pleasantly. 

"Things  is  runnin'  slow,"  said  a  Starr  man.  "Wish 
I'd  'a'  fetched  my  music  along.  Mebby  I  could  git 
somebody  to  sing  me  to  sleep." 

Bud  laughed.  "Have  a  good  time,  boys."  And  he 
moved  on. 

"That  was  one  for  you  —  and  yore  piano,"  said 
his  companion. 

"Mebby  so.  We'll  let  that  rest.  I'm  lookin' for  a 
friend  of  mine."  And  Shoop  edged  along  the  crowd. 

The  man  that  Shoop  was  looking  for  was  standing 
alone  beneath  the  shade  of  an  acacia,  watching  the 
crowd.  He  was  a  tall,  heavy  man,  dark-featured,  with 
a  silver-gray  beard  and  brown  eyes  that  seemed  to 
twinkle  with  amusement  even  when  his  lips  were 
grim.  The  giant  sheepman  of  the  south  country  was 
known  to  every  one  on  account  of  his  great  physique 
and  his  immense  holdings  in  land  and  sheep.  Shoop 
talked  with  him  for  a  few  minutes.  Together  they 
strolled  back  to  the  crowd. 

The  Starr  boys  were  still  pitching  dollars  when 
Shoop  and  the  sheepman  approached. 

"Who's  top-hand  in  this  game?"  queried  Shoop 
genially. 

"High  Chin  —  and  at  any  game  you  got,"  said  a 
Starr  man. 

"Well,  now!" 

"Any  game  you  got." 

174 


Play 

Shoop  gazed  about,  saw  Lorry,  and  beckoned  to 
him. 

"Here's  my  candidate,"  said  Shoop.  "He  kep'  out 
of  the  ropin'  so  as  to  give  you  fellas  a  chance."  And 
he  turned  to  Lorry.  "Give  him  a  whirl,"  he  said, 
indicating  High  Chin.  "It's  worth  a  couple  of  dol- 
lars just  to  find  out  how  good  he  is." 

High  Chin  surveyed  the  circle  of  faces,  poised  a 
dollar,  and  threw  it.  Lorry  threw  and  lost.  High 
Chin  pocketed  the  two  dollars.  The  Starr  boys 
grinned.  High  Chin  threw  again.  The  dollar  slid 
close  to  the  line.  Lorry  shied  his  dollar  and  knocked 
the  other's  coin  several  feet  away  from  the  line. 

"Try  him  ag'in,"  said  Shoop. 

Lorry  tossed  again.  His  dollar  dropped  on  the  line. 
High  Chin  threw.  His  coin  clinked  squarely  on 
Lorry's,  but  spun  off,  leaving  it  undisturbed. 

"You  break  even  —  at  that  game,"  said  Shoop. 
"It  was  a  good  shot." 

"Folks  been  sayin'  the  same  of  you,"  said  High 
Chin,  turning  to  the  supervisor. 

"Oh,  folks  will  talk.  They're  made  that  way," 
chuckled  Shoop. 

"Well,  I  got  ten  bucks  that  says  High  Chin  can 
outshoot  any  hombre  in  this  crowd,"  said  a  Starr  boy. 

"I'm  right  glad  you  got  it,"  said  Shoop  pleasantly. 

"Meanin'  I  stand  to  lose  it,  eh?" 

"Oh,  gosh,  no!  You're  steppin'  on  your  bridle.  I 
was  congratulatin'  you  on  your  wealth  " 

175 


Tang  of  Life 

"I  ain't  seen  that  you  been  flashin'  any  money," 
said  the  cowboy. 

"Nope.  That  ain't  what  money's  made  for.  And 
I  never  bet  on  a  sure  thing.  Ain't  no  fun  in  that." 

The  giant  sheepman,  whose  movements  were  as 
deliberate  as  the  sun's,  slowly  reached  in  his  pocket 
and  drew  out  a  leather  pouch.  He  counted  out  forty 
dollars  in  gold-pieces. 

"I'll  lay  it  even,"  he  said,  his  eyes  twinkling,  "that 
Bud  Shoop  can  outshoot  any  man  in  the  crowd." 

"I'll  take  ten  of  that,"  said  the  Starr  man. 

"And  I'll  take  ten,"  said  another  cowboy. 

"John,"  said  Shoop,  turning  to  the  sheepman, 
"you're  a  perpendicular  dam'  fool." 

Word  went  forth  that  High-Chin  Bob,  of  the  Starr, 
and  Bud  Shoop  were  to  shoot  a  match  for  a  thousand 
dollars  a  side,  and  some  of  the  more  enthusiastic  be- 
lieved it.  In  a  few  minutes  the  street  was  empty  of 
all  save  the  ponies  at  the  hitching-rails. 

In  a  shallow  arroyo  back  of  town  the  excited  throng 
made  wagers  and  talked  of  wonderful  shots  made  by 
the  principals.  High  Chin  was  known  as  a  quick  and 
sure  shot.  Shoop's  reputation  was  known  to  fewer  of 
the  crowd.  The  Starr  boys  backed  their  foreman  to 
the  last  cent.  A  judge  was  suggested,  but  declined 
as  being  of  the  locality.  Finally  the  giant  sheepman, 
despite  his  personal  wager,  was  elected  unanimously. 
He  was  known  to  be  a  man  of  absolute  fairness,  and 
qualified  to  judge  marksmanship.  He  agreed  to 

176 


Play 

serve,  with  the  proviso  that  the  Starr  boys  or  any  of 
High  Chin's  friends  should  feel  free  to  question  his 
decisions.  The  crowd  solidified  back  of  the  line, 
where  Shoop  and  High  Chin  stood  waiting  for  the 
test. 

The  marksmen  faced  two  bottles  on  a  rock  some 
thirty  paces  away.  At  the  word,  each  was  to  "go  for 
his  gun"  and  shoot.  High  Chin  carried  his  gun  in  the 
usual  holster.  Bud  Snoop's  gun  was  tucked  in  the 
waistband  of  his  pants. 

"Go!"  said  the  sheepman. 

High  Chin's  hand  flashed  to  his  hip.  His  gun 
jumped  and  spoke.  Shoop's  wrist  turned.  Both  bot- 
tles were  shattered  on  the  instant.  A  tie  was  declared. 

The  men  were  placed  with  their  backs  toward  the 
targets  —  two  empty  bottles.  The  sheepman  faced 
them,  with  his  hands  behind  his  back.  When  he 
snapped  his  fingers  they  were  to  turn  and  fire.  Many 
of  the  onlookers  thought  this  test  would  leave  High 
Chin  a  point  ahead. 

Both  men  swung  and  fired  at  the  signal.  Again 
both  bottles  were  shattered.  Although  a  tie  was 
again  declared,  the  crowd  cheered  for  Shoop,  realiz- 
ing his  physical  handicap.  Yet  many  asserted  that 
High  Chin  was  the  faster  man,  won  to  this  decision 
by  his  lightning  speed  of  movement  and  his  easy 
manner,  suggesting  a  kind  of  contemptuous  indiffer- 
ence to  results. 

In  contrast  to  High  Chin's  swift,  careless  efficiency, 

177 


Tang  of  Life 

Shoop's  solid  poise  and  lack  of  elbow  motion  showed 
in  strong  relief.  Their  methods  were  entirely  dis- 
similar. But  it  was  evident  to  the  old-timers  that 
Shoop  shot  with  less  effort  and  waste  motion  than  his 
lithe  competitor.  And  High  Chin  was  the  younger 
man  by  twenty  years. 

Thus  far  the  tests  had  not  been  considered  diffi- 
cult. But  when  the  sheepman  stepped  off  ten  paces 
and  faced  the  competitors  with  a  cigar  held  at  arm's 
length,  the  chattering  of  the -crowd  ceased.  High 
Chin,  as  guest,  was  asked  to  shoot  first.  He  raised 
his  gun.  It  hung  poised  for  a  second.  As  it  jumped 
in  his  hand  the  ash  flirted  from  the  end  of  the  cigar. 
The  crowd  stamped  and  cheered.  Shoop  congratu- 
lated High  Chin.  The  crowd  hooted  and  called  to 
Shoop  to  make  good.  Even  as  they  called,  his  hand 
flashed  up.  Hardly  had  the  report  of  his  gun  startled 
them  to  silence  when  they  saw  that  his  hands  were 
empty.  A  roar  of  laughter  shook  the  crowd.  Some 
one  pointed  toward  the  sheepman.  The  laughter 
died  down.  He  held  a  scant  two  inches  of  cigar  in 
his  fingers.  Then  they  understood,  and  were  silent 
again.  They  gathered  round  the  sheepman.  He  held 
up  his  arms.  Shoop's  bullet  had  nipped  the  cigar  in 
two  before  they  had  realized  that  he  intended  to 
shoot. 

"You're  havin'  the  luck,"  said  High. 

"  You  're  right,"  said  Shoop.  "And  luck,  if  she  keeps 
steadv  gait,  is  just  as  good  a  hoss  to  ride  as  they  is." 

178 


Play 

Still,  there  were  those  who  maintained  that  Shoop 
had  made  a  chance  hit.  But  High  Chin  knew  that 
this  was  not  so.  He  had  met  his  master  at  the  six- 
gun  game. 

Bud  Shoop 's  easy  manner  had  vanished.  As  solid 
as  a  rock,  his  lips  in  a  straight  line,  he  waited  for  the 
next  test  while  High  Chin  talked  and  joked  with  the 
bystanders. 

"You'll  shoot  when  you  see  something  to  shoot 
at,"  was  the  sheepman's  word.  The  crowd  laughed. 
He  stood  behind  the  marksmen,  a  tin  can  in  each 
hand.  Both  High  Chin  and  Shoop  knew  what  was 
coming,  and  Shoop  decided  to  surprise  the  assem- 
blage. The  main  issue  was  not  the  shooting  con- 
test, and  if  High-Chin  Bob  had  not  already  seen 
enough  of  Shoop's  work  to  satisfy  him,  the  genial 
Bud  intended  to  clinch  the  matter  right  there. 

Without  warning,  the  sheepman  tossed  the  cans 
into  the  air.  Shoop  and  High  Chin  shot  on  the  in- 
stant. But  before  High  Chin's  can  touched  the 
ground  Shoop  shot  again.  It  was  faster  work  than 
any  present  had  ever  seen.  A  man  picked  up  the 
cans  and  brought  them  to  the  sheepman.  One  can 
had  a  clean  hole  in  it.  The  other  had  two  holes 
through  it.  Those  nearest  the  marksmen  wondered 
why  Shoop  had  not  shot  twice  at  his  own  can.  But 
the  big  sheepman  knew  that  Shoop  had  called  High 
Chin's  bluff  about  "any  game  going." 

Even  then  the  match  was  a  tie  so  far  as  precedent 

179 


Tang  of  Life 

demanded.  Each  man  had  made  a  hit  on  a  moving 
target. 

The  crowd  had  ceased  to  applaud. 

"How  about  a  try  from  the  saddle?"  suggested 
High  Chin. 

"I  reckon  I  look  just  as  fat  and  foolish  set  tin'  hi 
a  saddle  as  anywhere,"  said  Shoop. 

The  crowd  shuffled  over  to  a  more  open  spot,  on 
the  mesa.  Shoop  and  High  Chin  mounted  their 
horses.  A  tin  cracker  box  was  placed  on  a  flat  rock 
out  in  the  open. 

The  men  were  to  reload  and  shoot  at  top  speed 
as  they  rode  past  the  box.  The  Starr  foreman  im- 
mediately jumped  his  pony  to  a  run,  and,  swaying 
easily,  threw  a  shot  at  the  box  as  he  approached  it, 
another  and  another  when  opposite,  and,  turning 
in  the  saddle,  fired  his  three  remaining  shots.  The 
box  was  brought  back  and  inspected.  The  six  shots 
had  all  hit. 

Shoop,  straight  and  solid  as  a  statue,  ran  his  pony 
down  the  course,  but  held  his  fire  until  almost  oppo- 
site the  box.  Then  six  reports  rippled  out  like  the 
drawing  of  a  stick  quickly  across  a  picket  fence.  It 
was  found  that  the  six  shots  had  all  hit  in  one  side 
of  the  box.  The  sheepman  was  asked  for  a  decision. 
He  shook  his  head  and  declared  the  match  a  draw. 
And  technically  it  was  a  draw.  Every  one  seemed 
satisfied,  although  there  was  much  discussion  among 
individuals  as  to  the  relative  merits  of  the  contestants. 

180 


Play 

As  the  crowd  dispersed  and  some  of  them  pre- 
pared to  ride  home,  two  horsemen  appeared  on  the 
northern  road,  riding  toward  town.  As  they  drew 
nearer  Shoop  chuckled.  Lorry,  standing  a  few  paces 
away,  glanced  at  him. 

The  supervisor  was  talking  to  Bob  Brewster. 
"High,  you're  the  best  I  ever  stacked  up  against, 
exceptin*  one,  and  it's  right  curious  that  he  is  just 
a-ridin'  into  this  powwow.  If  you  want  to  see  what 
real  shootin'  is,  get  him  to  show  you." 

"I  don't  know  your  friend,"  said  High,  eyeing 
the  approaching  horsemen,  "but  he's  a  beaut  if  he 
can  outshoot  you." 

"Outshoot  me?  Say,  High,  that  hombre  ridin' 
the  big  buckskin  hoss  there  could  make  us  look 
about  as  fast  as  a  couple  of  fence-posts  when  it  comes 
to  handlin'  a  gun.  And  his  pardner  ain't  what  you'd 
call  slow." 

High  Chin's  lean  face  darkened  as  he  recognized 
Waring  riding  beside  a  gaunt,  long-legged  man  whose 
gray  eyes  twinkled  as  he  surveyed  the  little  group. 

"Pat  —  and  Jim  Waring,"  muttered  Shoop. 
"And  us  just  finished  what  some  would  call  a  ole- 
time  shootin'-bee!" 

"Who's  your  friend?"  queried  High  Chin,  al- 
though he  knew. 

"Him?  That's  Jim  Waring,  of  Sonora.  And  say, 
High,  I  ain't  his  advertisin'  agent,  but  between  you 
and  me  he  could  shoot  the  fuzz  out  of  your  ears  and 

181 


Tang  of  Life 

never  as  much  as  burn  'em.  What  I'm  tellin'  you  is 
first-class  life  insurance  if  you  ain't  took  out  any. 
And  before  you  go  I  just  want  to  pass  the  word  that 
young  Adams  is  workin'  for  me.  Reckon  you  might 
be  interested,  seein'  as  how  he  worked  for  you  a 
spell." 

High  Chin  met  Shoop's  gaze  unblinkingly.  He 
was  about  to  speak  when  Pat  and  Waring  rode  up 
and  greeted  the  supervisor.  High  Chin  wheeled  his 
horse  and  loped  back  to  town.  A  few  minutes  later 
he  and  his  men  rode  past.  To  Shoop's  genial  wave 
of  farewell  they  returned  a  whoop  that  seemed  edged 
with  a  vague  challenge. 

Pat,  who  was  watching  them,  asked  Shoop  who 
the  man  was  riding  the  pinto. 

"Why,  that's  High-Chin  Bob  Brewster,  Starr 
fo'man.  He's  kind  of  a  wild  bird.  I  reckon  he  came 
over  here  lookin'  for  trouble.  He's  been  walkin' 
around  with  his  wings  and  tail  spread  like  he  was 
mad  at  somethin'." 

"I  thought  I  knew  him,"  said  Pat.  And  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders. 

Shoop  noticed  that  Waring  was  gazing  at  Pat  in 
a  peculiar  manner.  He  attached  no  significance  to 
this  at  the  time,  but  later  he  recalled  the  fact  that 
there  had  been  trouble  between  Pat  and  the  Brews- 
ter boys  some  years  ago.  The  Brewsters  had  then 
openly  threatened  to  "get  Pat  if  he  ever  rode  north 
again." 


Chapter  XVII 

Down  the  Wind 

WARING,  several  miles  out  from  the  home 
shack,  on  the  new  range,  sat  his  horse 
Dexter,  watching  his  men  string  fence. 
They  ran  the  barbed  wire  with  a  tackle,  stringing  it 
taut  down  the  long  line  of  bare  posts  that  twin- 
kled away  to  dots  in  the  west.  Occasionally  Waring 
rode  up  and  tested  the  wire  with  his  hand.  The  men 
worked  fast.  Waring  and  Pat  had  picked  their  men; 
three  husky  boys  of  the  high  country  who  consid- 
ered stringing  fence  rather  pleasant  exercise.  There 
was  no  recognized  foreman.  Each  knew  his  work, 
and  Waring  had  added  a  foreman's  pay  to  their 
salaries,  dividing  it  equally  among  them.  Later  they 
would  look  after  the  ranch  and  the  cattle. 

Twenty  thousand  acres  under  fence,  with  plenty 
of  water,  would  take  care  of  eight  hundred  or  a 
thousand  head  of  cattle.  And  as  a  provision  against 
a  lean  winter,  Waring  had  put  a  mowing-machine 
in  at  the  eastern  end  of  the  range,  where  the  bunch- 
grass  was  heavy  enough  to  cut.  It  would  be  neces- 
sary to  winter-feed.  Four  hundred  white-faced 
Herefords  grazed  in  the  autumn  sunshine.  Riding 
round  and  among  them  leisurely  was  the  Mexican 
youth,  Ramon. 

183 


Tang  of  Life 

Backed  against  a  butte  near  the  middle  of  the 
range  was  the  broad,  low-roofed  ranch-house.  A 
windmill  purred  in  the  light  breeze,  its  lean,  flick- 
ering shadow  aslant  the  corrals.  The  buildings 
looked  new  and  raw  in  contrast  to  the  huge  pile  of 
grayish-green  greasewood  and  scrub  cedar  gathered 
from  the  clearing  round  them. 

In  front  of  the  house  was  a  fenced  acre,  ploughed 
and  harrowed  to  a  dead  level.  This  was  to  be  Pat's 
garden,  wherein  he  had  planned  to  grow  all  sorts  of 
green  things,  including  cucumbers.  At  the  moment 
Pat  was  standing  under  the  veranda  roof,  gazing 
out  across  the  ranch.  The  old  days  of  petty  warfare, 
long  night  rides,  and  untold  hardships  were  past. 
Next  spring  his  garden  would  bloom;  tiny  green 
tendrils  would  swell  to  sturdy  vines.  Corn-leaves 
would  broaden  to  waving  green  blades  shot  with  the 
rich  brown  of  the  ripening  ears.  Although  he  had 
never  spoken  of  it,  Pat  had  dreamed  of  blue  flowers 
nodding  along  the  garden  fence;  old-fashioned  bache- 
lor's-buttons that  would  spring  up  as  though  by 
accident.  But  he  would  have  to  warn  Waco,  the 
erstwhile  tramp,  not  to  mistake  them  for  weeds. 

"Peace  and  plenty,"  muttered  Pat,  smiling  to  him- 
self. "The  Book  sure  knows  how  to  say  those  things." 

The  gaunt,  grizzled  ex-sheriff  reached  in  his  vest 
for  a  cigar.  As  he  bit  the  end  off  and  felt  for  a  match, 
he  saw  a  black  speck  wavering  in  the  distance.  He 
shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand. 

184 


Down  the  Wind 

"T  ain't  a  machine,"  he  said.  "And  it  ain't  a 
buckboard.  Some  puncher  lookin'  for  a  job,  most 
likely." 

He  turned  and  entered  the  house.  Waco,  shaven 
and  in  clean  shirt  and  overalls,  was  "punching 
dough"  in  the  kitchen. 

"Did  Jim  say  when  he  would  ride  in?"  queried 
Pat. 

"About  sundown.  I  fixed  'em  up  some  chuck 
this  morning.  Jim  figures  they're  getting  too  far  out 
to  ride  in  every  noon." 

"Well,  when  you  get  your  bread  baked  we'll  take 
a  whirl  at  those  ditches.  How  are  the  supplies  hold- 
ing out?" 

"We're  short  on  flour.  Got  enough  to  last  over 
till  Monday.  Plenty  bacon  and  beans  and  lard." 

"All  right.    We'll  hook  up  to-morrow  and  drive 


in." 


Waco  nodded  as  he  tucked  a  roll  of  dough  into 
the  pan.  Pat  watched  him  for  a  moment.  Waco, 
despite  his  many  shortcomings,  could  cook,  and, 
strangely  enough,  liked  to  putter  round  the  garden. 

Picked  up  half-starving  on  the  mesa  road,  near 
St.  Johns,  he  had  been  brought  to  the  ranch  by  Pat, 
where  a  month  of  clean  air  and  industry  had  re- 
shaped the  tramp  to  something  like  a  man.  Both 
Pat  and  Waring  knew  that  the  hobo  was  wanted  in 
Stacey.  They  had  agreed  to  say  nothing  about  the 
tramp's  whereabouts  just  so  long  as  he  made  him- 

185 


Tang  of  Life 

self  useful  about  the  ranch.  They  would  give  him  a 
chance.  But,  familiar  with  his  kind,  they  were 
mildly  skeptical  as  to  Waco's  sincerity  of  purpose. 
If  he  took  to  drinking,  or  if  Buck  Hardy  heard  of 
his  whereabouts,  he  would  have  to  go.  Meanwhile, 
he  earned  his  keep.  He  was  a  good  cook,  and  a  good 
cook,  no  matter  where  or  where  from,  is  a  power  in 
the  land. 

As  Waco  closed  the  oven  door  some  one  hallooed. 
Pat  stepped  to  the  veranda.  A  cowboy  astride  a 
bay  pony  asked  if  Waring  were  around. 

"I  can  take  your  message,"  said  Pat. 

"Well,  it's  for  you,  I  guess.  Letter  from  Buck 
Hardy." 

"Yes,  it's  for  me,"  said  Pat.   "Who  sent  you?" 

"Hardy.  Said  something  about  you  had  a  man 
down  here  he  wanted." 

"All  right.  Stay  for  chuck?" 

"I  got  to  git  back.  How's  things  down  this  way?" 

"Running  on  time.  Just  tell  Buck  I'll  be  over 
right  soon." 

"To-day?" 

Pat's  gray  eyes  hardened.  "Buck  tell  you  to  ask 
me  that?" 

"  Well  —  no.  I  was  just  wonderin'." 

"Then  keep  right  on  wondering,"  said  Pat.  "You 
got  your  answer." 

The  cowboy  swung  up  and  rode  off.  "To  hell  with 
him!"  he  said.  "Thinks  he  can  throw  a  scare  into 

186 


Down  the  Wind 

me  because  he's  got  a  name  for  killin'.  To  hell  witfr 
him!" 

Pat  climbed  the  hill  back  of  the  house  and  sur< 
veyed  the  glimmering  levels. 

"Wish  Jim  would  ride  in.  Funny  thing  —  Hardy 
sending  a  Starr  boy  with  word  for  me.  But  perhaps 
the  kid  was  riding  this  way,  anyhow." 

Pat  shook  his  head,  and  climbed  slowly  down  to 
the  house.  Waco  was  busy  in  the  kitchen  when  he 
came  in. 

After  the  noon  meal,  Pat  again  climbed  the  hill. 
He  seemed  worried  about  something.  When  he  re- 
turned he  told  Waco  to  hitch  the  pintos  to  the 
buckboard. 

"  Get  your  coat,"  he  told  Waco.  "  We  're  going  over 
to  Stacey." 

Waco's  hands  trembled.  "Say,  boss,  if  you  don't 
mind—" 

"Get  your  coat.  I'll  talk  to  Buck.  You  need  n't 
to  worry.  I'll  square  you  with  Buck.  We  can  use 
you  here." 

Waco  did  as  he  was  told.  They  drove  out  of  the 
yard.  Waco  leaped  down  and  closed  the  gate. 

The  pintos  shook  themselves  into  the  harness  and 
trotted  down  the  faintly  marked  new  road.  The 
buckboard  swayed  and  jolted.  Something  rubbed 
against  Waco's  hip.  He  glanced  down  and  saw  Pat's 
gun  on  the  seat  between  them.  Pat  said  nothing. 
He  was  thinking  hard.  The  cowboy  messenger's 

187 


Tang  of  Life 

manner  had  not  been  natural.  The  note  bore  the 
printed  heading  of  the  sheriff's  office.  Perhaps  it 
was  all  right.  And  if  it  were  not,  Pat  was  not  the 
man  to  back  down  from  a  bluff. 

Several  miles  out  from  the  ranch  ran  the  naked 
posts  of  the  line  fence.  Pat  reined  in  the  ponies  and 
gazed  up  and  down  the  line.  A  mile  beyond,  the 
ranch  road  merged  with  the  main-traveled  highway 
running  east  and  west.  He  spoke  to  the  horses. 
They  broke  into  a  fast  trot.  Waco,  gripping  the 
seat,  stared  straight  ahead.  Why  had  Pat  laid  that 
gun  on  the  seat? 

A  thin,  gray  veil  drifted  across  the  sun.  From 
the  northwest  a  light  wind  sprang  up  and  ran  across 
the  mesa,  whipping  the  bunch-grass.  The  wind 
grew  heavier,  and  with  it  came  a  fine,  dun-colored 
dust.  An  hour  and  the  air  was  thick  with  a  shifting 
red  haze  of  sand.  The  sun  glowed  dimly  through  the 
murk. 

Waco  turned  up  his  coat-collar  and  shivered.  The 
air  was  keen.  The  ponies  fought  the  bit,  occasion- 
ally breaking  into  a  gallop.  Pat  braced  his  feet  and 
held  them  to  a  trot.  A  weird  buzzing  came  down 
the  wind.  The  ponies  reared  and  took  to  the  ditch 
as  a  machine  flicked  past  and  drummed  away  in  the 
distance. 

To  Waco,  rigid  and  staring,  the  air  seemed  filled 
with  a  kind  of  hovering  terror,  a  whining  threat 
of  danger  that  came  in  bursts  of  driving  sand  and 

188 


Down  the  Wind 

dwindled  away  to  harsh  whisperings.  He  stood  it 
as  long  as  he  could.  Pat  had  not  spoken. 

Waco  touched  his  arm.  "I  got  a  hunch,"  he  said 
hoarsely,  —  "I  got  a  hunch  we  oughta  go  back." 

Pat  nodded.  But  the  ponies  swept  on  down  the 
road,  their  manes  and  tails  whipping  in  the  wind. 
Another  mile  and  they  slowed  down  in  heavy  sand. 
The  buckboard  tilted  forward  as  they  descended 
the  sharp  pitch  of  an  arroyo.  Unnoticed,  Pat's  gun 
slipped  to  the  floor  of  the  wagon. 

In  the  arroyo  the  wind  seemed  to  have  died  away, 
leaving  a  startled  quietness.  It  still  hung  above 
them,  and  an  occasional  gust  filled  their  eyes  with 
grit.  Waco  drew  a  deep  breath.  The  ponies  tugged 
through  the  heavy  sand. 

Without  a  sound  to  warn  them  a  rider  appeared 
close  to  the  front  wheel  of  the  buckboard.  Waco 
shrank  down  in  sodden  terror.  It  was  the  Starr  fore- 
man, High-Chin  Bob.  Waco  saw  Pat's  hand  flash 
to  his  side,  then  fumble  on  the  seat. 

"I'm  payin'  the  Kid's  debt,"  said  High  Chin, 
and,  laughing,  he  threw  shot  after  shot  into  the  de- 
fenseless body  of  his  old  enemy. 

Waco  saw  Pat  slump  forward,  catch  himself,  and 
finally  topple  from  the  seat.  As  the  reins  slipped 
from  his  fingers  the  ponies  lunged  up  the  arroyo. 
Waco  crouched,  clutching  the  foot-rail.  A  bullet 
hummed  over  his  head.  Gaining  the  level,  the 
ponies  broke  into  a  wild  run.  The  red  wind  whined 

189 


Tang  of  Life 

as  it  drove  across  the  mesa.  The  blackboard  lurched 
sickeningly.  A  scream  of  terror  wailed  down  the 
wind  as  the  buckboard  struck  a  telegraph  pole.  A 
blind  shock  —  and  for  Waco  the  droning  of  the  wind 
had  ceased. 

Dragging  the  broken  traces,  the  ponies  circled  the 
mesa  and  set  off  at  a  gallop  toward  home.  At  the 
side  of  the  road  lay  the  splintered  buckboard,  wheels 
up.  And  Waco,  hovering  on  the  edge  of  the  black 
abyss,  dreamed  strange  dreams. 

Waring,  riding  in  with  the  crew,  found  the  ranch- 
house  deserted  and  the  pinto  ponies  dragging  the 
shreds  of  a  broken  harness,  grazing  along  the  fence. 
Waring  sent  a  man  to  catch  up  the  team.  Ramon 
cooked  supper.  The  men  ate  in  silence. 

After  supper  Waring  changed  his  clothes,  saddled 
Dex,  and  packed  some  food  in  the  saddle-pockets. 
"I  am  going  out  to  look  for  Pat,"  he  told  one  of  his 
men.  "If  Waco  shows  up,  keep  him  here  till  I  get 
back.  Those  horses  did  n't  get  away  from  Pat. 
Here's  a  signed  check.  Get  what  you  need  and  keep 
on  with  the  work.  You're  foreman  till  I  get  back." 

"If  there's  anything  doing — "  began  the  cow- 
boy. 

"I  don't  know.  Some  one  rode  in  here  to-day. 
It  was  along  about  noon  that  Pat  and  Waco  left. 
The  bread  was  baked.  I'd  say  they  drove  to  town 
for  grub;  only  Pat  took  his  gun  —  without  the  hok 

190 


Down  the  Wind 

ster.  It  looks  bad  to  me.  If  anything  happens  to 
me,  just  send  for  Lorry  Adams  at  the  Ranger  Sta- 
tion." 

Waring  rode  out,  looking  for  tracks.  His  men 
watched  him  until  he  had  disappeared  behind  a  rise. 
Bender,  the  new  foreman,  turned  to  his  fellows. 

"I'd  hate  to  be  the  man  that  the  boss  is  lookin' 
for,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head. 

"Why,  he's  lookin'  for  Pat,  ain't  he?"  queried 
one  of  the  men. 

"That  ain't  what  I  mean,"  said  the  foreman. 

The  wind  died  down  suddenly.  The  sun,  just 
above  the  horizon,  glowed  like  a  disk  of  burnished 
copper.  The  wagon  ruts  were  filled  with  fine  sand. 
Waring  read  the  trail.  The  buckboard  had  traveled 
briskly.  It  had  stopped  at  the  line.  The  tracks  of 
the  fretting  ponies  showed  that  clearly.  Alongside 
the  tracks  of  the  ponies  were  the  half-hidden  tracks 
of  a  single  horse.  Waring  glanced  back  at  the  sun, 
and  put  Dex  to  a  lope.  He  swung  into  the  main 
road,  his  gaze  following  the  half-obliterated  trail  of 
the  single  horseman.  Suddenly  he  reined  up.  The 
horseman  had  angled  away  from  the  road  and  had 
ridden  north  across  the  open  country.  He  had  not 
gone  to  Stacey.  Waring  knew  that  the  horseman 
had  been  riding  hard.  Straight  north  from  where 
Waring  had  stopped  was  the  Starr  Ranch. 

He  rode  on,  his  heart  heavy  with  a  black  pre- 
191 


Tang  of  Life 

monition.  The  glowing  copper  disk  was  now  half- 
hidden  by  the  western  hills. 

At  the  brink  of  the  arroyo  he  dismounted.  He 
could  see  nothing  distinctly  in  the  gloom  of  its 
depths.  Stooping,  he  noted  the  wagon  tracks  as  he 
worked  on  down.  His  foot  struck  against  something 
hard.  He  fumbled  and  picked  Pat's  gun  from  the 
sand.  Every  chamber  was  loaded. 

"He  did  n't  have  a  chance."  Waring  was  startled 
by  his  own  voice.  He  thrust  the  gun  in  his  waist- 
band. The  twilight  deepened  rapidly.  Rocks  and 
ridges  in  the  arroyo  assumed  peculiar  shapes  like 
those  of  men  crouching;  men  prone;  men  with  heads 
up,  listening,  watching,  waiting.  Yet  Waring's  in- 
stinct for  hidden  danger  told  him  that  there  was  no 
living  thing  in  the  arroyo  —  unless  —  Suddenly  he 
sprang  forward  and  dropped  to  his  knees  beside  a 
huddled  shape  near  a  boulder. 

"Pat!  "he  whispered. 

Then  he  knew;  saw  it  all  as  clearly  as  though  he 
had  witnessed  it  —  the  ambushment  in  the  blind- 
ing sandstorm;  the  terror-stricken  Waco;  the  fright- 
ened ponies;  the  lunging  and  swaying  buckboard. 
And  Pat,  left  for  dead,  but  who  had  dragged  him- 
self from  the  roadway  in  dumb  agony. 

The  dole  of  light  from  the  sinking  sun  was  gone. 
Waring's  hands  came  away  from  the  opened  shirt 
shudderingly.  He  wiped  his  hands  on  the  sand,  and, 
rising,  ran  back  to  Dex.  He  returned  with  a  whiskey 

192 


Down  the  Wind 

frask.  Pat  was  of  tough  fiber  and  tremendous  vital- 
ity. If  the  spark  were  still  unquenched,  if  it  could 
be  called  back  even  for  a  breath,  that  which  Waring 
knew,  yet  wanted  to  confirm  beyond  all  doubt,  might 
be  given  in  a  word.  He  raised  Pat's  head,  and  barely 
tilted  the  flask.  The  spirit  of  the  mortally  stricken 
man,  perchance  loath  to  leave  such  a  brave  hermit- 
age, winged  slowly  back  from  the  far  shore  of 
dreams.  In  the  black  pit  of  the  arroyo,  where  death 
crouched,  waiting,  life  flamed  for  an  instant. 

Waring  felt  the  limp  body  stir.  He  took  Pat's 
big,  bony  hand  in  his. 

"Pat!  "he  whispered. 

A  word  breathed  heavily  from  the  motionless  lips. 
"You,  Jim?" 

"Yes!  For  God's  sake,  Pat,  who  did  this  thing?'*. 

"Brewster  —  Bob.  Letter  —  in  my  coat." 

"I'll  get  him!"  said  Waring. 

"Shake!"  exclaimed  the  dying  man,  and  the  grip 
of  his  hand  was  like  iron.  Waring  thought  he  had 
gone,  and  leaned  closer.  "I'm  —  kind  of  tired  — 
Jim.  Reckon  —  I  '11  —  rest." 

Waring  felt  the  other's  grip  relax.  He  drew  his 
hand  from  the  stiffening  fingers.  A  dull  pain  burned 
in  his  throat.  He  lighted  a  match,  and  found  thft 
message  that  had  lured  Pat  to  his  death  in  the  other's 
coat-pocket.  He  rose  and  stumbled  up  the  arroyo 
to  his  horse. 

Halfway  back  to  the  ranch,  and  he  met  Ramon 

193 


Tang  of  Life 

riding  hard.  "Ride  back,"  said  Waring,  "Hook 
up  to  the  wagon  and  come  to  the  arroyo." 

"Have  you  found  the  Senor  Pat?" 

"Yes.  He  is  dead." 

Ramon  whirled  his  pony  and  pounded  away  in 
the  darkness. 

Out  on  the  highway  two  long,  slender  shafts  of 
light  slid  across  the  mesa,  dipped  into  an  arroyo, 
and  climbed  skyward  as  a  machine  buzzed  up  the 
opposite  pitch.  The  lights  straightened  again  and 
shot  on  down  the  road,  swinging  stiffly  from  side  to 
side.  Presently  they  came  to  a  stop.  In  the  soft 
glow  of  their  double  radiance  lay  a  yellow-wheeled 
buckboard,  shattered  and  twisted  round  a  telegraph 
pole.  The  lights  moved  up  slowly  and  stopped 
again. 

A  man  jumped  from  the  machine  and  walked  round 
the  buckboard.  Beneath  it  lay  a  crumpled  figure. 
The  driver  of  the  machine  ran  a  quick  hand  over  the 
neck  and  arms  of  Waco,  who  groaned.  The  driver 
lifted  him  and  carried  him  to  the  car.  Stacey  lay 
some  twenty  miles  behind  him.  He  was  bound 
.south.  The  first  town  on  his  way  was  thirty  miles 
distant.  But  the  roads  were  good.  He  glanced  back 
at  the  huddled  figure  in  the  tonneau.  The  car  purred 
on  down  the  night.  The  long  shafts  of  light  lifted 
over  a  rise  and  disappeared. 

In  about  an  hour  the  car  stopped  at  the  town  of 
Grant,  Waco  was  carried  from  the  macnine  to  a 

194 


Down  the  Wind 

room  in  the  hotel,  and  a  doctor  was  summoned. 
Waco  lay  unconscious  throughout  the  night. 

In  the  morning  he  was  questioned  briefly.  He 
gave  a  fictitious  name,  and  mentioned  a  town  he 
had  heard  of,  but  had  never  been  in.  His  horses 
had  run  away  with  him. 

The  man  who  had  picked  him  up  drove  away  next 
morning.  Later  the  doctor  told  Waco  that  through 
a  miracle  there  were  no  bones  broken,  but  that  he 
would  have  to  keep  to  his  bed  for  at  least  a  week. 
Otherwise  he  would  never  recover  from  the  severe 
shock  to  his  nervous  system. 

And  Waco,  recalling  the  horror  of  the  preceding 
day,  twisted  his  head  round  at  every  footstep  in  the 
hall,  fearing  that  Waring  had  come  to  question  him. 
He  knew  that  he  had  done  no  wrong;  in  fact,  he  had 
told  Pat  that  they  had  better  drive  back  home.  But 
a  sense  of  shame  at  his  cowardice,  and  the  realiza- 
tion that  his  word  was  as  water  in  evidence,  that  he 
was  but  a  wastrel,  a  tramp,  burdened  him  with  an 
aching  desire  to  get  away  —  to  hide  himself  from 
Waring's  eyes,  from  the  eyes  of  all  men. 

He  kept  telling  himself  that  he  had  done  nothing 
wrong,  yet  fear  shook  him  until  his  teeth  chattered. 
What  could  he  have  done  even  had  he  been  cour- 
ageous? Pat  had  had  no  chance. 

He  suffered  with  the  misery  of  indecision.  Habit 
inclined  him  to  flee  from  the  scene  of  the  murder. 
Fear  of  the  law  urged  him.  Three  nights  after  he 

195 


Tang  of  Life 

had  been  brought  to  Grant,  he  dressed  and  crept 
down  the  back  stairs,  and  made  his  way  to  the  rail- 
road station.  Twice  he  had  heard  the  midnight 
freight  stop  and  cut  out  cars  on  the  siding.  He 
hid  in  the  shadows  until  the  freight  arrived.  He 
climbed  to  an  empty  box-car  and  waited.  Train- 
men crunched  past  on  the  cinders.  A  jolt  and  he 
was  swept  away  toward  the  west.  He  sank  into  a 
half  sleep  as  the  iron  wheels  roared  and  droned  be- 
neath him. 


Chapter  XVIII 

A  Piece  of  Paper 

IN  the  little  desert  hotel  at  Stacey,  Mrs.  Adams 
was  singing  softly  to  herself  as  she  moved  about 
the  dining-room  helping  Anita  clear  away  the 
breakfast  dishes.  Mrs.  Adams  had  heard  from 
Lorry.  He  had  secured  a  place  in  the  Ranger  Service. 
She  was  happy.  His  letter  had  been  filled  with  en- 
thusiasm for  the  work  and  for  his  chief,  Bud  Shoop. 
This  in  itself  was  enough  to  make  her  happy.  She 
had  known  Bud  in  Las  Cruces.  He  was  a  good  man. 
And  then  —  Jim  had  settled  down.  Only  last  week 
he  had  ridden  over  and  told  her  how  they  were  get- 
ting on  with  the  work  at  the  ranch.  He  had  hinted 
then  that  he  had  laid  his  guns  away.  Perhaps  he 
had  wanted  her  to  know  that  more  than  anything 
else.  She  had  kissed  him  good-bye.  His  gray  eyes 
had  been  kind.  "Some  day,  Annie,"  he  had  said. 
Her  face  flushed  as  she  recalled  the  moment. 

A  boot-heel  gritted  on  the  walk.  She  turned. 
Waring  was  standing  in  the  doorway.  His  face  was 
set  and  hard.  Involuntarily  she  ran  to  him. 

"What  is  it,  Jim?  Lorry?" 

He  shook  his  head.  She  saw  at  once  that  he  was 
dressed  for  a  long  ride  and  that  —  an  unusual  cir- 
cumstance—  a  gun  swung  at  his  hip.  He  usually 

197 


Tang  of  Life 

wore  a  coat  and  carried  his  gun  in  a  shoulder 
holster.  But  now  he  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves.  A 
dread  oppressed  her.  He  was  ready  on  the  instant 
to  fight,  but  with  whom?  Her  eyes  grew  big. 

"What  is  it?"  she  whispered  again. 

"The  Brewster  boys  got  Pat." 

"Not  —  they  did  n't  kill  him!" 

Waring  nodded. 

"But,  Jim— " 

"In  the  Red  Arroyo  on  the  desert  road.  I  found 
him.  I  came  to  tell  you." 

"And  you  are  going — " 

"Yes.  I  was  afraid  this  would  happen.  Pat  made 
a  mistake." 

"But,  Jim!  The  law  — the  sheriff  — you  don't 
have  to  go." 

"No,"  he  said  slowly. 

"Then  why  do  you  go?  I  thought  you  would  never 
do  that  again.  I  —  I  —  prayed  for  you,  Jim.  I 
prayed  for  you  and  Lorry.  I  asked  God  to  send  you 
back  to  me  with  your  two  hands  clean.  I  told  Him 
you  would  never  kill  again.  Oh,  Jim,  I  wanted  you 
—  here!  Don't!"  she  sobbed. 

He  put  his  arm  round  her  shoulders.  Stooping, 
he  kissed  her. 

"You  are  going?"  she  asked,  and  her  hands 
dropped  to  her  sides. 

"Yes;  I  told  Pat  I  would  get  Brewster.  Pat  went 
out  with  his  hand  in  mine  on  that  word.  My  God, 

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A  Piece  of  Paper 

Annie,  do  you  think  I  could  ride  back  to  the  ranch 
and  face  the  boys  or  sleep  nights  with  Pat's  hand 
reaching  for  me  in  the  dark  to  remind  me  of  my 
word?  Can't  you  see  where  I  stand?  Do  you  think 
I  could  look  Lorry  in  the  face  when  he  knew  that  I 
sat  idle  while  the  man  that  murdered  Pat  was  riding 
the  country  free?" 

"Pat  was  your  friend.  I  am  your  wife,"  said  Mrs. 
Adams. 

Waring's  lips  hardened.  "Pat's  gone.  But  I'm 
calling  myself  his  friend  yet.  And  the  man  that  got 
him  is  going  to  know  it." 

Before  she  could  speak  again  Waring  was  gone. 

She  dropped  to  a  chair  and  buried  her  face  in  her 
arms.  Anita  came  to  her  and  tried  to  comfort  her. 
But  Mrs.  Adams  rose  and  walked  to  the  office  door- 
way. She  saw  Waring  riding  down  the  street.  She 
wanted  to  call  out  to  him,  to  call  him  back.  She  felt 
that  he  was  riding  to  his  death.  If  he  would  only 
turn!  If  he  would  only  wave  his  hand  to  show  that 
he  cared  —  But  Waring  rode  on,  straight  and  stern, 
black  hate  in  his  heart,  his  free  hand  hollowed  as 
though  with  an  invisible  vengeance  that  was  gone 
as  he  drew  his  fingers  tense. 

He  rode  north,  toward  the  Starr  Ranch.  He  passed 
a  group  of  riders  drifting  some  yearlings  toward 
town.  A  man  spoke  to  him.  He  did  not  reply. 

And  as  he  rode  he  heard  a  voice  —  the  Voice  of 
his  desert  wanderings,  the  Voice  that  had  whispered 

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Tang  of  Life" 

to  him  from  the  embers  of  many  a  night  fire  in  the 
Southern  solitudes.  Yet  there,  was  this  difference. 
That  voice  had  been  strangely  dispassionate,  de- 
tached; not  the  voice  of  a  human  being*  But  now 
the  Voice  was  that  of  his  friend  Pat  softly  reiterat- 
ing: "Not  this  way,  Jim." 

And  Waring  cursed.  His  plan  was  made.  He 
would  suffer  no  interference.  If  Brewster  were  at  the 
Starr  Ranch,  he  would  question  him  first.  If  he 
were  not,  there  would  be  no  questioning.  Waring 
determined  to  trail  him.  If  Brewster  had  left  that 
part  of  the  country,  that  would  prove  his  guilt. 

Waring  knew  that  Hardy  and  his  men  had  ridden 
south,  endeavoring  to  find  some  clue  to  the  mur- 
derer's whereabouts.  Waring,  guided  by  almost 
absolute  knowledge,  rode  in  the  opposite  direction 
and  against  a  keen  instinct  that  told  him  High-Chin 
Bob  was  not  at  the  ranch.  Yet  Waring  would  not 
overlook  the  slightest  chance.  Brewster  was  of  the 
type  that  would  kill  a  man  in  a  quarrel  and  ride 
home,  depending  on  his  nerve  and  lack  of  evidence 
to  escape  punishment. 

The  Voice  had  said,  "Not  this  way,  Jim."  And 
Waring  knew  that  it  had  been  the  voice  of  his  own 
instinct.  Yet  a  stubborn  purpose  held  him  to  his 
course.  There  was  one  chance  in  a  thousand  that 
Bob  Brewster  was  at  the  ranch  and  would  disclaim 
all  knowledge  of  the  shooting. 

Starr  was  away  when  Waring  arrived.   Mrs.  Starr 

200 


A  Piece  of  Paper 

made  Waring  welcome,  and  told  him  that  her  hus- 
band would  be  in  that  evening.  He  was  out  with 
one  of  his  men  running  a  line  for  a  new  fence.  The 
old  days  of  open  range  were  past.  And  had  Mr. 
Waring  heard  that  Pat  had  been  killed?  Buck 
Hardy  was  out  searching  for  the  murderer.  Did  Mr. 
Waring  know  of  a  likely  foreman?  Bob  Brewster 
had  left  suddenly.  Jasper  —  her  husband  —  was 
not  well :  had  the  rheumatics  again.  He  could  hardly 
walk  —  and  his  foreman  had  left.  "Things  always 
happened  that  way." 

Mrs.  Starr  paused  for  lack  of  breath. 
;    "When  did  Brewster  leave,  Mrs.  Starr?" 

"Why,  the  last  Jasper  seen  of  him  was  Wednes- 
day morning.  Jasper  is  worried.  I'm  right  glad  you 
rode  over.  He'll  be  glad  to  see  you." 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  look  over  the  horses  in  your 
corral?" 

"Goodness,  no!  I'll  have  Sammy  go  with  you  — " 

"Thanks;  but  I'd  rather  you  said  nothing  to  the 
boys." 

"You  don't  think  that  Bob  — " 

"Mrs.  Starr,  I  would  n't  say  so  if  I  knew  it.  Bob 
Brewster  has  friends  up  here.  I'm  looking  for  one  of 
them." 

"Goodness,  Mr.  Waring,  I  hope  you  don't  think 
any  of  our  boys  was  mixed  up  in  that." 

"I  hope  not.  Have  you  seen  Tony  or  Andy  Brew- 
ster lately?" 

201 


Tang  of  Life 

"Why,  no.  I  —  why,  yes!  Tony  and  Andy  rode 
over  last  Sunday.  I  remember  it  was  Sunday  because 
Bob  was  out  to  the  line  shack.  Tony  and  Andy  hung 
around  for  a  while,  and  then  rode  out  to  look  for 
Bob." 

"Well,  I'll  step  over  and  look  at  the  horses.  You 
say  Jasper  will  be  in  this  evening?" 

"If  he  ain't  too  stiff  with  rheumatics  to  ride 
back." 

Waring  walked  round  the  corrals,  looking  for  a 
pony  lame  forward  and  with  half  a  front  shoe  gone. 
Finally  he  noticed  a  short-coupled  bay  that  had  not 
moved  when  he  had  waved  his  arm.  Waring  climbed 
through  the  bars  and  cornered  the  horse.  One  front 
shoe  was  entirely  gone,  and  the  pony  limped  as  War- 
ing turned  him  loose. 

Mrs.  Starr  was  getting  supper  when  Waring  re- 
turned to  the  house. 

"Any  of  the  boys  coming  in  with  Jasper?"  he 
queried. 

"Why,  nobody  except  Pete.  Pete's  been  layin'  off. 
He  claims  his  horse  stepped  in  a  gopher  hole  and  threw 
him.  Jasper  took  him  along,  feelin'  like  he  wanted 
some  one  on  account  of  his  rheumatics.  Jasper  gets 
so  stiff  ridin'  that  sometimes  he  can  hardly  get  on  his 
horse.  Mebby  you  noticed  Pete's  pony,  that  chunky 
bay  in  the  corral  —  lame  forward." 

"Yes,  I  noticed  that.  But  that  pony  did  n't  step 
in  a  gopher  hole.  He  was  ridden  down  by  some  one 

202 


A  Piece  of  Paper 

in  a  hurry  to  get  somewhere.  He  cast  a  shoe  and  went 
tender  on  the  rocks." 

Mrs.  Starr  stared  at  Waring. 

He  shook  his  head  and  smiled.  "I  don't  know.  I 
can  only  guess  at  it." 

"Well,  you'll  stay  for  supper  —  and  you  can  talk 
to  Jasper.  He's  worried." 

"Thank  you.  And  would  you  mind  asking  this 
man  Pete  in  to  supper  with  us?" 

"I  figured  to,  him  being  with  Jasper  and  not  feeling 
right  well." 

About  sundown  Starr  rode  in.  Waring  helped  him 
from  his  horse.  They  shook  hands  in  silence.  The  old 
cattleman  knew  at  once  why  Waring  had  come,  but 
he  had  no  inkling  of  what  was  to  follow. 

The  cowboy,  Pete,  took  care  of  the  horses.  A  little 
later  he  clumped  into  the  house  and  took  a  seat  in  a 
corner.  Waring  paid  no  attention  to  him,  but  talked 
with  Starr  about  the  grazing  and  the  weather. 

Just  before  supper  Starr  introduced  Waring. 

The  cowboy  winced  at  Waring's  grip.  "Heard  tell 
of  you  from  the  boys,"  he  said. 

"You  want  to  ride  over  to  our  place,"  said  Waring 
pleasantly.  "Pat  and  I  will  show  you  some  pretty 
land  under  fence." 

The  cowboy's  eyelids  flickered.  How  could  this 
man  Waring  speak  of  Pat  that  way,  when  he  must 
know  that  Pat  had  been  killed?  Everybody  knew 
that.  Why  did  n't  Mrs.  Starr  or  Starr  say  something? 

203 


Tang  of  Life 

But  Starr  was  limping  to  the  table,  and  Mrs.  Starr 
was  telling  them  to  come  and  have  supper. 

In  the  glow  of  the  hanging  lamp,  Starr's  lined, 
grizzled  features  were  as  unreadable  as  carved 
bronze.  Waring,  at  his  left,  sat  directly  opposite  the 
cowboy,  Pete.  The  talk  drifted  from  one  subject  to 
another,  but  no  one  mentioned  the  killing  of  Pat. 
Waring  noted  the  cowboy's  lack  of  appetite. 

"I  looked  over  your  saddle-stock  this  afternoon," 
said  Waring.  "Noticed  you  had  a  bay  out  there, 
white  blaze  on  his  nose.  You  don't  want  to  sell  that 
pony,  do  you?" 

"Oh,  that's  Pete's  pony,  Baldy,"  said  Mrs.  Starr. 

Starr  glanced  at  Waring.  The  horse  Baldy  was 
good  enough  as  cow-ponies  went,  but  Waring  had 
not  ridden  over  to  buy  horses. 

"I  aim  to  keep  that  cayuse,"  said  Pete,  swallowing 
hard. 

"But  every  man  has  his  price,"  —  and  Waring 
smiled.  "I'll  make  my  offer;  a  hundred,  cash." 

"Not  this  evenin',"  said  the  cowboy. 

Waring  felt  in  the  pocket  of  his  flannel  shut.  "I'll 
go  you  one  better.  I'll  make  it  a  hundred,  cash,  and 
this  to  boot."  And  his  arm  straightened. 

Pete  started  back.  Waring's  hand  was  on  the  table, 
the  fingers  closed.  His  fingers  slowly  opened,  and  a 
crumpled  piece  of  paper  lay  in  his  palm.  The  cow- 
boy's lips  tightened.  His  eyes  shifted  from  Waring 
to  Starr,  and  then  back  again. 

204 


A  Piece  of  Paper 

Mrs.  Starr,  who  could  not  understand  the  strange 
silence  of  the  men,  breathed  hard  and  wiped  her  fore- 
head with  her  apron. 

"Read  it!"  said  Waring  sharply. 

The  cowboy  took  the  piece  of  paper,  and,  spreading 
it  out,  glanced  at  it  hurriedly. 

"This  ain't  for  me,"  he  asserted. 

"Did  you  ever  see  it  before?" 

"This?  No.  What  have  I  got  to  do  with  the  sheriff's 
office?" 

"Pete,"  said  Waring,  drawing  back  his  hand,  "you 
had  better  read  that  note  again." 

"Why,  I  — Pete  can't  read,"  said  Mrs.  Starr. 
"He  can  spell  out  printed  reading  some,  but  not 
writing." 

"Then  how  did  you  know  this  paper  was  from  the 
sheriff's  office?"  queried  Waring. 

The  cowboy  half  rose. 

"Sit  down!"  thundered  Waring.  "Who  sent  you 
with  a  note  to  Pat  last  Wednesday?" 

"Who  said  anybody  sent  me?" 

"Don't  waste  time!  I  say  so.  That  broken  shoe 
your  cayuse  cast  says  so,  for  I  trailed  him  from  my 
ranch  to  the  line  fence.  And  you  have  said  so  your- 
self. This  paper  is  not  from  the  sheriff's  office.  It's 
a  tax  receipt." 

The  cowboy's  face  went  white. 

"Honest,  so  help  me,  Mr.  Waring,  I  did  n't  know 
the  Brewster  boys  was  after  Pat.  Bob  he  give  me 

205 


Tang  of  Life 

the  paper.  Said  it  was  from  the  sheriff,  and  I  was 
to  give  it  to  Pat  if  you  were  n't  around.5* 

"And  if  I  happened  to  be  around?" 

"I  was  to  wait  until  you  was  out  with  the  fence 
gang  — " 

"How  did  you  know  I  would  be  out  with  them?" 

"Bob  Brewster  told  me  you  would  be." 

Waring  folded  the  piece  of  paper  and  tore  it  across. 

"Starr,"  he  said,  turning  to  the  old  cattleman, 
"you  have  heard  and  seen  what  has  happened  since 
we  sat  down."  And  Waring  turned  on  the  cowboy. 
"How  much  did  Bob  Brewster  give  you  for  this 
work?" 

"I  was  to  get  fifty  dollars  if  I  put  it  through." 

"And  you  put  it  through!  You  knew  it  was 
crooked.  And  you  call  yourself  a  man!  And  you  took 
a  letter  to  Pat  that  called  him  out  to  be  shot  down 
by  that  coyote!  Do  you  know  that  Pat's  gun  was 
loaded  when  I  found  it;  that  he  didn't  have  a 
chance?  " 

Waring's  face  grew  suddenly  old.  He  leaned  back 
wearily. 

"I  wonder  just  how  you  feel?"  he  said  presently. 
"If  I  had  done  a  trick  like  that  I'd  take  a  gun  and 
blow  my  brains  out.  God,  I'd  rather  be  where  Pat 
is  than  have  to  carry  your  load  the  rest  of  my  life! 
But  you're  yellow  clean  through,  and  Bob  Brewster 
knew  it  and  hired  you.  Now  you  will  take  that  lame 
cayuse  and  ride  north  just  as  quick  as  you  can  throw 

206 


A  Piece  of  Paper 

a  saddle  on  him.  And  when  you  go,"  —  and  Waring 
rose  and  pointed  toward  the  doorway,  —  "forget  the 
way  back  to  this  country/' 

The  cowboy  shuffled  his  feet  and  picked  up  his  hat. 
Starr  got  up  stiffly  and  limped  to  his  room.  He  came 
out  with  a  check,  which  he  gave  to  the  cowboy. 

Waring  pushed  back  his  chair  as  though  to  step 
round  the  table  and  follow  the  cowboy,  but  he  hesi- 
tated, and  finally  sat  down. 

"I'm  sorry  it  happened  this  way,  Mrs.  Starr,"  he 
said. 

• "  It 's  awful !  And  one  of  our  men ! " 

"That's  not  your  fault,  Mrs.  Starr." 

Starr  fumbled  along  the  clock  shelf,  found  his  pipe, 
and  lighted  it.  He  sat  down  near  Waring  as  Mrs. 
Starr  began  to  clear  away  the  dishes. 

"If  I  can  do  anything  to  help  run  down  that  white- 
livered  skunk  —  " 

"You  can,  Jasper.  Just  keep  it  to  yourself  that  I 
have  been  here.  Pete  left  of  his  own  accord.  I  don't 
want  the  Brewster  boys  to  know  I'm  out  on  their 
trail." 

Starr  nodded  and  glanced  at  his  wife.  "I  looked  to 
see  you  kill  him,"  he  said,  gesturing  toward  the  door- 
way. 

"What  !  That  poor  fool?  I  thought  you  knew  me 
better,  Jasper." 


Chapter  XIX 

The  Fight  in  the  Open 

STARR  was  awakened  at  midnight  by  the  sound 
of  boot-heels  on  the  ranch-house  veranda.  He 
lighted  a  lamp  and  limped  to  the  door.  The 
lamplight  shone  on  the  smooth,  young  face  of  a  Mexi- 
can, whose  black  sombrero  was  powdered  with  dust. 

"What  do  you  want?"  queried  Starr. 

"I  am  look  for  the  Senor  Jim.  I  am  Ramon,  of  his 
place.  From  the  rancho  I  ride  to  Stacey.  He  is  not 
there.  Then  I  come  here." 

"And  you  ain't  particular  about  wakin'  folks  up  to 
tell  'em,  either." 

"I  would  find  him,"  said  Ramon  simply. 

"What's  your  business  with  Jim  Waring?" 

"It  is  that  I  am  his  friend.  I  know  that  he  is  ride 
looking  for  the  men  who  killed  my  patron  the  Senor 
Pat.  I  am  Ramon." 

"Uh-uh.  Well,  suppose  you  are?" 

"It  is  not  the  suppose.  I  am.  I  would  find  Senor 
Jim." 

"Who  said  he  was  here?" 

"The  senora  at  the  hotel  would  think  that  he  was 
here/' 

Starr  scratched  his  grizzled  head.  Waring  had  said 
nothing  about  the  Mexican.  And  Starr  did  not  like 

208 


The  Fight  in  the  Open 

Mexicans.  Moreover,  Waring  had  said  to  tell  no  one 
that  he  had  been  at  the  Starr  Ranch. 

"I  don't  know  where  Jim  Waring  is,"  said  Starr, 
and,  stepping  back,  he  closed  the  door. 

Ramon  strode  to  his  horse  and  mounted.  All 
gringos  were  not  like  the  Senor  Jim.  Many  of  them 
hated  Mexicans.  Ah,  well,  he  would  ride  back  to 
Stacey.  The  senora  at  the  cantina  was  a  pleasant 
woman.  She  would  not  shut  the  door  in  his  face,  for 
she  knew  who  he  was.  He  would  ask  for  a  room  for 
the  night.  In  the  morning  he  would  search  for  Senor 
Jim.  He  must  find  him. 

Mrs.  Adams  answered  his  knock  at  the  hotel  door 
by  coming  down  and  letting  him  in.  Ramon  saw  by 
the  office  clock  that  it  was  past  three.  She  showed 
him  to  a  room. 

No,  the  senor  had  not  been  at  the  Starr  Rancho. 
But  he  would  find  him. 

Ramon  tiptoed  to  the  open  window,  and  knelt 
with  his  arms  on  the  sill.  A  falling  star  streaked  the 
night. 

"And  I  shall  as  soon  find  him  as  I  would  find  that 
star,"  he  murmured.  "Yet  to-morrow  there  will  be 
the  sun.  And  I  will  ask  the  Holy  Mother  to  help  me. 
She  will  not  refuse,  knowing  my  heart." 

Without  undressing,  he  flung  himself  on  the  bed. 
As  he  slept  he  dreamed;  a  strange,  vivid  dream  of  the 
setting  sun  and  a  tiny  horseman  limned  against  the 
gold.  The  horseman  vanished  as  he  rose  to  follow.  If 


Tang  of  Life 

he  were  only  sure  that  it  was  the  Senor  Jim!  The 
dream  had  said  that  the  senor  had  ridden  into  the 
west.  In  the  morning  — 

With  the  dawn  Ramon  was  up.  Some  one  was 
moving  about  in  the  kitchen  below.  Ramon  washed 
and  smoothed  his  long  black  hair  with  his  hands.  He 
stepped  quietly  downstairs.  Breakfast  was  not  ready, 
so  he  walked  to  the  kitchen  and  talked  with  Anita. 

To  her,  who  understood  him  as  no  gringo  could, 
he  told  of  his  quest.  She  knew  nothing  of  the  Senor 
Jim's  whereabouts,  save  that  he  had  come  yesterday 
and  talked  with  the  senora.  Anita  admired  the  hand- 
some young  Mexican,  whose  face  was  so  sad  save 
when  his  quick  smile  lightened  the  shadow.  And  she 
told  him  to  go  back  to  the  ranch  and  not  become 
entangled  in  the  affairs  of  the  Americanos.  It  would 
be  much  better  for  him  so. 

Ramon  listened  patiently,  but  shook  his  head.  The 
Senor  Jim  had  been  kind  to  him;  had  given  him  his 
life  down  in  the  Sonora  desert.  Was  Ramon  Ortego 
to  forget  that? 

Mrs.  Adams  declined  to  take  any  money  for 
Ramon's  room.  He  worked  for  her  husband,  and  it 
was  at  Ramon's  own  expense  that  he  would  make  the 
journey  in  search  for  him.  Instead  she  had  Anita 
put  up  a  lunch  for  Ramon. 

He  thanked  her  and  rode  away,  taking  the  western 
trail  across  the  morning  desert. 

Thirty   miles   beyond   Stacey,   he   had   news    of 

210 


The  Fight  in  the  Open 

Waring.  A  Mexican  rancher  bad  seen  the  gringo  pass 
late  in  the  evening.  He  rode  a  big  buckskin  horse. 
He  was  sure  it  must  be  the  man  Ramon  sought. 
There  was  not  another  such  horse  in  Arizona. 

Ramon  rode  on  next  day,  inquiring  occasionally  at 
a  ranch  or  crossroad  store.  Once  or  twice  he  was  told 
that  such  a  horse  and  rider  had  passed  many  hours 
ago.  At  noon  he  rested  and  fed  his  pony.  All  that 
afternoon  he  rode  west.  Night  found  him  in  the  vil- 
lage of  Downey,  where  he  made  further  inquiry,  but 
without  success. 

Next  morning  he  was  on  the  road  early,  still  riding 
west.  No  dream  had  come  to  guide  him,  yet  the 
memory  of  the  former  dream  was  keen.  If  that  dream 
were  not  true,  all  dreams  were  lies  and  prayer  a  use- 
less ceremony. 

For  three  days  he  rode,  tracing  the  Senor  Jim  from 
town  to  town,  but  never  catching  up  with  him.  Once 
he  learned  that  Waring  had  slept  in  the  same  town, 
but  had  departed  before  daybreak.  Ramon  wondered 
why  no  dream  had  come  to  tell  him  of  this. 

That  day  he  rode  hard.  There  were  few  towns  on 
his  way.  He  reined  in  when  he  came  to  the  fork  where 
the  southern  highway  branches  from  the  Overland 
Road.  The  western  road  led  on  across  the  mountains 
past  the  great  canon.  The  other  swept  south  through 
cattle  land  and  into  the  rough  hills  beyond  which  lay 
Phoenix  and  the  old  Apache  Trail.  He  hailed  a  buck- 
board  coming  down  the  southern  road.  The  driver 


Tang  of  Life 

had  seen  nothing  of  a  buckskin  horse.  Ramon  hesi- 
tated, closing  his  eyes.  Suddenly  in  the  darkness 
glared  a  golden  sun,  and  against  it  the  tiny,  black 
silhouette  of  a  horseman.  His  dream  could  not  lie. 

Day  by  day  the  oval  of  his  face  grew  narrower, 
until  his  cheek-bones  showed  prominently.  His  lips 
lost  their  youthful  fullness.  Only  his  eyes  were  the 
same;  great,  velvet-soft  black  eyes,  gently  question- 
ing, veiled  by  no  subtlety,  and  brighter  for  the  deep- 
ening black  circles  beneath  them. 

The  fifth  day  found  him  patiently  riding  west, 
despite  the  fact  that  all  trace  of  Waring  had  been 
lost.  Questioned,  men  shook  their  heads  and  watched 
him  ride  away,  his  lithe  figure  upright,  but  his  head 
bowed  as  though  some  blind  fate  drew  him  on  while 
his  spirit  drowsed  in  stagnant  hopelessness. 

To  all  his  inquiries  that  day  he  received  the  same 
answer.  Finally,  in  the  high  country,  he  turned  and 
retraced  his  way. 

A  week  after  he  had  left  Stacey  he  was  again  at 
the  fork  of  the  highway.  The  southern  road  ran, 
winding,  toward  a  shallow  valley.  He  took  this  road, 
peering  ahead  for  a  ranch,  or  habitation  of  any  kind. 
That  afternoon  he  stopped  at  a  wayside  store  and 
bought  crackers  and  canned  meat.  He  questioned 
the  storekeeper.  Yes,  the  storekeeper  had  seen  such 
a  man  pass  on  a  big  buckskin  cayuse  several  days  ago. 
Ramon  thanked  him  and  rode  on.  He  camped  just 
off  the  road  that  evening.  In  the  morning  he  set  out 


The  Fight  in  the  Open 

again,  cheered  by  a  new  hope.  His  dream  had  not 
lied;  only  there  should  have  been  another  dream  to 
show  him  the  way  before  he  had  come  to  the  fork  in 
the  road. 

That  afternoon  three  men  passed  him,  riding  hard. 
They  were  in  their  shirt-sleeves  and  were  heavily 
armed.  Their  evident  haste  caused  Ramon  to  note 
their  passing  with  some  interest.  Yet  they  had  thun- 
dered past  him  so  fast,  and  in  such  a  cloud  of  dust, 
that  he  could  not  see  them  clearly. 

Waring,  gaunt  as  a  wolf,  unshaven,  his  hat  rimmed 
with  white  dust,  pulled  up  in  front  of  the  weathered 
ScJoon  in  the  town  of  Criswell  on  the  edge  of  the 
desert. 

He  dismounted  and  stepped  round  the  hitching- 
rail.  His  face  was  lined  and  gray.  His  eyes  were  red- 
rimmed  and  heavy.  As  he  strode  toward  the  saloon 
door,  he  staggered  and  caught  himself.  Dex  shuffled 
uneasily,  knowing  that  something  was  wrong  with  his 
master. 

Waring  drew  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  and,  entering 
the  saloon,  asked  for  whiskey.  As  in  a  dream,  he  saw 
men  sitting  in  the  back  of  the  place.  They  leaned  on 
their  elbows  and  talked.  He  drank  and  called  for 
more.  The  loafers  in  the  saloon  glanced  at  each  other. 
Three  men  had  just  ridden  through  town  and  down 
into  the  desert,  going  over-light  for  such  a  journey. 
And  here  was  the  fourth.  They  glanced  at  Waring's 

213 


Tang  of  Life 

boots,  his  belt,  his  strong  shoulders,  and  his  dusty 
sombrero.  Whoever  he  was,  he  fitted  his  clothes.  But 
a  man  "going  in"  was  a  fool  to  take  more  than  one 
drink.  The  three  men  ahead  had  not  stopped  at  the 
saloon.  One  of  them  had  filled  a  canteen  at  the  tank 
near  the  edge  of  the  town.  They  had  seemed  in  a 
great  hurry  for  men  of  their  kind. 

Waring  wiped  his  lips  and  turned.  His  eyes  had 
grown  bright.  For  an  instant  he  glanced  at  the  men, 
the  brown  walls  spotted  with  "Police  Gazette"  pic- 
tures, the  barred  window  at  the  rear  of  the  room.  He 
drew  out  his  gun,  spun  the  cylinder,  and  dropped  it 
back  into  the  holster. 

The  stranger,  whoever  he  was,  seemed  to  be  handy 
with  that  kind  of  tool.  Well,  it  was  no  affair  of  theirs. 
The  aesert  had  taken  care  of  such  affairs  in  the  past, 
and  there  was  plenty  of  room  for  more. 

From  the  saloon  doorway  they  saw  Waring  ride 
to  the  edge  of  town,  dismount,  and  walk  out  in  the 
desert  in  a  wide  circle.  He  returned  to  his  horse,  and, 
mounting,  rode  at  right  angles  to  the  course  the  three 
riders  had  taken. 

One  of  the  men  in  the  doorway  spoke.  "Thought 
so,"  he  said  with  finality. 

The  others  nodded.  It  was  not  their  affair.  The 
desert  would  take  care  of  that. 

About  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  Waring  rode 
down  a  sandy  draw  that  deepened  to  an  arroyo.  Near 
the  mouth  of  the  arroyo,  where  it  broke  off  abruptly 

214 


The  Fight  in  the  Open 

to  the  desert  level,  he  reined  up.  His  horse  stood 
with  head  lowered,  his  gaunt  sides  heaving.  Waring 
patted  him. 

"Not  much  longer,  old  boy,"  he  said  affectionately. 

With  his  last  burst  of  strength,  the  big  buckskin 
had  circled  the  course  taken  by  the  three  men,  urged 
by  Waring's  spur  and  voice.  They  were  heading  in  a 
direct  line  across  the  level  just  beyond  the  end  of  the 
arroyo  where  Waring  was  concealed.  He  could  not 
see  them,  but  as  usual  he  watched  Dex's  ears.  The 
horse  would  be  aware  of  their  nearness  without  seeing 
them.  And  Waring  dared  not  risk  the  chance  of  dis- 
covery. They  must  have  learned  that  he  was  follow- 
ing them,  for  they  had  ridden  hard  these  past  few 
days.  Evidently  they  had  been  unwilling  to  chance  a 
fight  in  any  of  the  towns.  And,  in  fact,  Waring  had 
once  been  ahead  of  them,  knowing  that  they  would 
make  for  the  desert.  But  that  night  he  had  over- 
slept, and  they  had  passed  him  in  the  early  hours  of 
morning. 

Slowly  Dex  raised  his  head  and  sniffed.  Waring 
patted  him,  afraid  that  he  would  nicker.  He  had 
dismounted  to  tighten  the  cinches  when  he  thought 
he  heard  voices  in  argument.  He  mounted  again. 
The  men  must  have  ridden  hard  to  have  made  such 
good  time.  Again  he  heard  voices.  The  men  were 
near  the  mouth  of  the  arroyo.  Waring  tossed  his 
hat  to  the  ground  and  dropped  his  gauntlets  beside 
his  hat.  Carefully  he  wiped  his  sweating  hands  on 

215 


Tang  of  Life 

his  bandanna.  Dex  threw  up  his  head.  His  nostrils 
worked.  Waring  spoke  to  him. 

A  shadow  touched  the  sand  at  the  mouth  of  the 
arroyo.  Waring  leaned  forward  and  drove  in  the 
spurs.  The  big  buckskin  leaped  to  a  run  as  he  rounded 
the  shoulder  of  the  arroyo. 

The  three  horsemen,  who  had  been  riding  close 
together,  spread  out  on  the  instant.  Waring  threw 
a  shot  at  the  foremost  figure  even  as  High  Chin's  first 
shot  tore  away  the  front  of  his  shirt.  Waring  fired 
again.  Tony  Brewster,  on  the  ground,  emptied  his 
gun  as  Waring  spurred  over  him.  Turning  in  the 
saddle  as  he  flashed  past  High  Chin,  Waring  fired  at 
close  range  at  the  other's  belt  buckle.  Out  on  the 
levels,  Andy  Brewster's  horse  was  running  with  tail 
tucked  down.  Waring  threw  his  remaining  shot  at 
High  Chin,  and,  spurring  Dex,  stood  in  his  stirrups 
as  he  reloaded  his  gun. 

The  rider  ahead  was  rocking  in  the  saddle.  He 
had  been  hit,  although  Waring  could  not  recall  having 
shot  at  him.  Suddenly  the  horse  went  down,  and 
Andy  Brewster  pitched  to  the  sand.  Waring  laughed 
and  reined  round  on  the  run,  expecting  each  instant 
to  feel  the  blunt  shock  of  a  bullet.  High  Chin  was  still 
sitting  his  horse,  his  gun  held  muzzle  up.  Evidently  he 
was  not  hard  hit,  or,  if  he  were,  he  was  holding  himself 
for  a  final  shot  at  Waring.  Behind  him,  almost  beneath 
his  horse,  his  brother  Tony  had  raised  himself  on  his 
elbow  and  was  fumbling  with  his  empty  gun. 

216 


The  Fight  in  the  Open 

Waring  rode  slowly  toward  High  Chin.  High 
Chin's  hand  jerked  down.  Waring's  wrist  moved  in 
answer.  The  two  reports  blended  in  a  blunt,  echoless 
roar.  Waring  felt  a  shock  that  numbed  his  thigh. 
High  Chin  sat  stiffly  in  the  saddle,  his  hand  clasp- 
ing the  horn.  He  turned  and  gazed  down  at  his 
brother. 

"Thought  you  got  him,"  said  Tony  Brewster 
from  the  ground.  "Sit  still  and  I'll  get  him  from 
under  your  horse." 

Waring  knew  now  that  High  Chin  was  hit  hard. 
The  foreman  had  let  his  gun  slip  from  his  fingers. 
Waring  saw  a  slight  movement  just  beneath  High 
Chin's  horse.  A  shock  lifted  him  from  the  saddle, 
and  he  dropped  to  the  ground  as  Tony  Brewster 
fired.  But  there  was  no  such  thing  as  quit  just  so 
long  as  Waring  could  see  to  shoot.  Dragging  him- 
self to  his  gun,  he  shook  the  sand  from  its  muzzle. 
He  knew  that  he  could  not  last  long.  Already  flecks 
of  fire  danced  before  his  eyes.  He  bit  his  lip  as  he 
raised  himself  and  drew  fine  on  that  black  figure 
beneath  High  Chin's  horse.  The  gun  jumped  in  his 
hand.  Waring  saw  the  black  figure  twitch  and  roll 
over.  Then  his  sight  grew  clouded.  He  tried  to  brush 
away  the  blur  that  grew  and  spread.  For  an  instant 
his  eyes  cleared.  High  Chin  still  sat  upright  hi  the 
saddle.  Waring  raised  his  gun  and  fired  quickly.  As 
his  hand  dropped  to  the  sand,  High  Chin  pitched 
headlong  and  lay  still. 

217 


Tang  of  Life 

Then  came  a  soft  black  veil  that  hid  the  glimmer- 
ing sun  and  the  wide  desert  reaches. 

High  Chin,  his  legs  paralyzed  by  a  slug  that  had 
torn  through  his  abdomen  and  lodged  in  his  spine, 
knew  that  he  had  made  his  last  fight.  He  braced  him- 
self on  his  hands  and  called  to  his  brother  Tony.  But 
his  brother  did  not  answer.  High  Chin's  horse  had 
strayed,  and  was  grazing  up  the  arroyo.  The  stricken 
man  writhed  round,  feeling  no  pain,  but  conscious  of 
a  horrible  numbness  across  his  back  and  abdomen. 

"When  it  hits  my  heart  I'm  done,"  he  muttered. 
"Guess  I'll  go  over  and  keep  Tony  company." 

Inch  by  inch  he  dragged  himself  across  the  sand. 
Tony  Brewster  lay  on  his  back.  High  Chin  touched 
him;  felt  of  the  limp  arm,  and  gazed  curiously  at  the 
blue-e^ged  hole  in  his  brother's  chest.  With  awful 
labor  that  brought  a  clammy  moisture  to  his  face, 
he  managed  to  drag  himself  close  to  his  brother  and 
writhe  round  to  a  position  where  he  could  sit  up, 
braced  against  the  other's  body.  He  gazed  out  across 
the  desert.  It  had  been  a  fast  fight.  Waring  was  done 
for.  High  Chin  wondered  how  long  he  would  last. 
The  sun  was  near  the  horizon.  It  seemed  only  a  few 
minutes  ago  that  the  sun  had  been  directly  overhead 
and  he  and  his  brothers  had  been  cursing  the  heat. 
It  was  growing  cold.  He  shivered.  A  long  shadow 
reached  out  toward  him  from  the  bank  of  the  arroyo. 
In  a  few  minutes  it  would  touch  him.  Then  would 
come  night  and  the  stars.  The  numbness  was  creep- 

218 


The  Fight  in  the  Open 

ing  toward  his  chest.  He  could  not  breathe  freely. 
He  moved  his  arms.  They  were  alive  yet.  He  opened 
and  closed  his  fingers,  gazing  at  them  curiously.  It 
was  a  strange  thing  that  a  man  should  die  like  this;  a 
little  at  a  time,  and  not  suffer  much  pain.  The  fad- 
ing flame  of  his  old  recklessness  flared  up. 

"I'm  goin'  across,"  he  said.  "But,  by  God,  I'm 
takin'  Jim  Waring  with  me!" 

He  glanced  toward  the  buckskin  horse  that  stood 
so  patiently  beside  that  silent  figure  out  there.  War- 
ing was  done  for.  High  Chin  blinked.  A  long  shaft 
of  sunlight  spread  across  the  sand,  and  in  the  glow 
High  Chin  saw  that  the  horse  was  moving  toward 
him.  He  stared  for  a  few  seconds.  Then  he  screamed 
horribly. 

Waring,  his  hand  gripping  the  stirrup,  was  drag- 
ging across  the  sand  beside  the  horse  that  stepped 
sideways  and  carefully  as  Waring  urged  him  on.  Dex 
worked  nearer  to  High  Chin,  but  so  slowly  that  High 
Chin  thought  it  was  some  horrible  phantasy  sent  to 
awaken  fear  in  his  dulled  brain.  But  that  dragging 
figure,  white-faced  and  terrible  —  that  was  real! 
Within  a  few  paces  of  High  Chin,  Dex  stopped  and 
turned  his  head  to  look  down  at  Waring.  And  War- 
ing, swaying  up  on  his  hands,  laughed  wildly. 

"I  came  over  —  to  tell  you  —  that  it  was  Pat's 
gun — "  He  collapsed  and  lay  still. 

High  Chin  sat  staring  dully  at  the  gunman's  un- 
covered head.  The  horse  sniffed  at  Waring.  High 

219 


Tang  of  Life 

Chin's  jaw  sagged.  He  slumped  down,  and  lay  back 
across  the  body  of  his  brother. 

A  pathway  of  lamplight  floated  out  and  across  the 
main  street  of  Criswell.  A  solitary  figure  lounged  at 
the  saloon  bar.  The  sharp  barking  of  a  dog  broke  the 
desert  silence.  The  lounger  gazed  at  the  path  of  lamp- 
light which  framed  the  bare  hitching-rail.  His  com- 
panions of  the  afternoon  had  departed  to  their  homes. 
Again  the  dog  barked  shrilly.  The  saloon-keeper 
moved  to  a  chair  and  picked  up  a  rumpled  paper. 

The  lounger,  leaning  on  his  elbow,  suddenly 
straightened.  He  pointed  toward  the  doorway.  The 
saloon-keeper  saw  the  motion  from  the  corner  of 
his  eye.  He  lowered  his  paper  and  rose.  In  the  soft 
radiance  a  riderless  horse  stood  at  the  hitching-rail, 
his  big  eyes  glowing,  his  ears  pricked  forward. 
Across  the  horse's  shoulder  was  a  ragged  tear,  black 
against  the  tawny  gold  of  his  coat.  The  men  glanced 
at  each  other.  It  was  the  horse  of  the  fourth  man; 
the  man  who  had  staggered  in  that  afternoon,  asked 
for  whiskey,  and  who  had  left  as  buoyantly  as 
though  he  went  to  meet  a  friend. 

"They  got  him,"  said  the  saloon-keeper. 

"They  got  him,"  echoed  the  other. 

Together  they  moved  to  the  doorway  and  peered 
out.  The  man  who  had  first  seen  the  horse  stepped 
down  and  tied  the  reins  to  the  rail.  He  ran  his  hand 
down  the  horse's  shoulder  over  muscles  that  quiv- 

220 


The  Fight  in  the  Open 

ered  as  he  examined  the  wound.  He  glanced  at  the 
saddle,  the  coiled  rope,  the  slackened  cinches,  and 
pointed  to  a  black  stain  on  the  stirrup  leather. 

"From  the  south,"  he  said.  "Maguey  rope,  and 
that  saddle  was  made  in  Mexico." 

"Mebby  he  wants  water,"  suggested  the  saloon- 
keeper. 

"He's  had  it.  Reins  are  wet  where  he  drug  'em  in 
the  tank." 

"Wonder  who  them  three  fellas  was?" 

"Don'  know.  From  up  north,  by  their  rig.  I'm 
wonderin'  who  the  fourth  fella  was  —  and  where  he 


is." 


"Why,  he's  out  there,  stiff 'nin'  on  the  sand. 
They's  been  a  fight.  And,  believe  me,  if  the  others 
was  like  him  —  she  was  a  dandy!" 

"I  guess  it's  up  to  us  to  do  somethin',"  suggested 
the  lounger. 

"Not  to-night,  Bill.  You  don't  ketch  me  ridin' 
into  a  flash  in  the  dark  before  I  got  time  to  tell  my- 
self I'm  a  dam'  fool.  In  the  mornin',  mebby  — " 

Their  heads  came  up  as  they  heard  a  horse  pound- 
ing down  the  road.  A  lean  pony,  black  with  sweat, 
jumped  to  a  trembling  stop. 

A  young  Mexican  swung  down  and  walked  stiffly 
up  to  Dex. 

"Where  is  Senor  Jim?"  he  queried,  breathing  hard. 

"Don'  know,  hombre.  This  his  hoss?" 

"Si!  It  is  Dex." 


Tang  of  Life 

'Well,   the  boss  came  in,   recent,  draggin*   the 


reins." 


"Then  you  have  seen  him?" 

"Seen  who?  Who  are  you,  anyway?" 

"Me,  I  am  Ramon  Ortego,  of  Sonora.  The  Senor 
Jim  is  my  friend.  I  would  find  him." 

"Well,  if  your  friend  sports  a  black  Stetson  and  a 
dam'  bad  eye  and  performs  with  a  short-barreled 
.45,  he  rode  in  this  afternoon  just  about  a  hour  be- 
hind three  other  fellas.  They  lit  out  into  the  dry  spot. 
Reckon  you  '11  find  your  friend  out  there,  if  the,  coy- 
otes ain't  got  to  him." 

Ramon  limped  to  the  rail  and  untied  Dex.  Then  he 
mounted  his  own  horse. 

"Dex,"  he  said  softly,  riding  alongside,  "where  is 
the  Senor  Jim?" 

The  big  buckskin  swung  his  head  round  and  sniffed 
Ramon's  hand.  Then  he  plodded  down  the  street 
toward  the  desert.  At  the  tank  Ramon  let  his  horse 
drink.  Dex,  like  a  great  dog,  sniffed  the  back  trail  on 
which  he  had  come,  plodding  through  the  night  to- 
ward the  spot  where  he  knew  his  master  to  be. 

Ramon,  burdened  with  dread  and  weariness,  rode 
with  his  hands  clasped  round  the  saddle-horn.  The 
Senor  Jim,  his  Senor  Jim,  had  found  those  whom  he 
sought.  He  had  not  come  back.  Ramon  was  glad 
that  he  had  filled  the  canteen.  If  the  man  who  had 
killed  his  Senor  Jim  had  escaped,  he  would  follow  him 
even  as  he  had  followed  Waring.  And  he  would  find 

222 


The  Fight  in  the  Open 

him.  "And  then  I  shall  kill  him,"  said  Ramon  sim- 
ply. "He  does  not  know  my  face.  As  I  speak  to  him 
the  Sefior  Jim's  name  I  shall  kill  him,  and  the  Senor 
Jim  will  know  then  that  I  have  been  faithful." 

The  big  buckskin  plodded  on  across  the  sand,  the 
empty  stirrups  swinging.  Ramon's  gaze  lifted  to  the 
stars.  He  smiled  wanly. 

"  I  follow  him.  Wherever  he  has  gone,  I  follow  him, 
and  he  will  not  lose  the  way." 

His  bowed  head,  nodding  to  the  pace  of  the  pony, 
seemed  to  reiterate  in  grotesque  assertion  his  spoken 
word.  Ramon's  tired  body  tingled  as  Dex  strode 
faster.  The  horse  nickered,  and  an  answering  nicker 
came  from  the  night.  His  own  tired  pony  struck  into 
a  trot.  Dex  stopped.  Ramon  slid  down,  and,  stum- 
bling forward,  he  touched  a  black  bulk  that  lay  on 
the  sand. 

Waring,  despite  his  trim  build,  was  a  heavy  man. 
Ramon  was  just  able  to  lift  him  and  lay  him  across  the 
saddle.  A  coyote  yipped  from  the  brush  of  the  ar- 
royo.  As  Ramon  started  back  toward  town  his  horse 
shied  at  something  near  the  arroyo's  entrance.  Ra- 
mon did  not  know  that  the  bodies  of  Tony  and  Bob 
Brewster  formed  that  low  mound  half -hidden  by  the 
darkness. 

A  yellow  star,  close  to  the  eastern  horizon,  twinkled 
faintly  and  then  disappeared.  The  saloon  at  Criswell 
had  been  closed  for  the  night. 

Next  morning  the  marshal  of  Criswell  sent  a  mes- 

223 


Tang  of  Life 

senger  to  the  telegraph  office  at  the  junction.  There 
was  no  railroad  entering  the  Criswell  Valley.  The 
messenger  bore  three  telegraph  messages;  one  to 
Sheriff  Hardy,  one  to  Bud  Shoop,  and  one  to  Mrs. 
Adams. 

Ramon,  outside  Waring's  room  in  the  marshal's 
house,  listened  as  the  local  doctor  moved  about. 
Presently  he  heard  the  doctor  ask  a  question.  War- 
ing's  voice  answered  faintly.  Ramon  stepped  from 
the  door  and  found  his  way  to  the  stable.  Dex,  plac- 
idly munching  alfalfa,  turned  his  head  as  Ramon 
came  in. 

"The  Senor  Jim  is  not  dead,"  he  told  the  horse. 

And,  leaning  against  Dex,  he  wept  softly,  as  women 
weep,  with  a  happiness  too  great  to  bear.  The  big 
horse  nuzzled  his  shoulder  with  his  velvet-smooth 
nose,  as  though  he  would  sympathize.  Then  he  turned 
to  munching  alfalfa  again  in  huge  content.  He  had 
had  a  weary  journey.  And  though  his  master  had  not 
come  to  feed  him,  here  was  the  gentle,  low-voiced 
Ramon,  whom  he  knew  as  a  friend. 


Chapter  XX 

City  Folks 

BUD  SHOOPS  new  duties  kept  him  exceed- 
ingly busy.  As  the  days  went  by  he  found 
himself  more  and  more  tied  to  office  detail. 
Fortunately  Torrance  had  left  a  well-organized  corps 
of  rangers,  each  with  his  own  special  work  mapped  out, 
work  that  Shoop  understood,  with  the  exception  of 
seeding  and  planting  experiments,  which  Lundy,  the 
expert,  attended  to  as  though  the  reserve  were  his 
own  and  his  life  depended  upon  successful  results 
along  his  special  line. 

Shoop  had  long  since  given  up  trying  to  dictate 
letters.  Instead  he  wrote  what  he  wished  to  say  on 
slips  of  paper  which  his  clerk  cast  into  conventional 
form.  The  genial  Bud's  written  directions  were  brief 
and  to  the  point. 

Among  the  many  letters  received  was  one  from  a 
writer  of  Western  stories,  applying  for  a  lease  upon 
which  to  build  a  summer  camp.  His  daughter's  health 
was  none  too  good,  and  he  wanted  to  be  in  the  moun- 
tains. Shoop  studied  the  letter.  He  had  a  vague 
recollection  of  having  heard  of  the  writer.  The  request 
was  legitimate.  There  was  no  reason  for  not  grant- 
ing it. 

225 


Tang  of  Life 

Shoop  called  in  his  stenographer.  "Ever  read  any 
of  that  fella's  books?" 

"Who?  Bronson?  Yes.  He  writes  bang-up  West- 
ern stories." 

"He  does,  eh?  Well,  you  get  hold  of  one  of  them 
stories.  I  want  to  read  it.  I've  lived  in  the  West  a 
few  minutes  myself." 

A  week  later  Shoop  had  made  his  decision.  He 
returned  a  shiny,  new  volume  to  the  clerk. 

"I  never  took  to  writin'  folks  reg'lar,"  he  told  the 
clerk.  "Mebby  I  got  the  wrong  idee  of  'em.  Now  I 
reckon  some  of  them  is  human,  same  as  you  and  me. 
Why,  do  you  know  I  been  through  lots  of  them  things 
he  writes  about.  And,  by  gollies,  when  I  read  that 
there  gun-fight  down  in  Texas,  I  ketched  myself 
feelin'  along  my  hip,  like  I  was  packin'  a  gun.  And 
when  I  read  about  that  cowboy's  hoss,  —  the  one 
with  the  sarko  eye  and  the  white  legs,  —  why,  I 
ketched  myself  feelin'  for  my  ole  bandanna  to  blow 
my  nose.  An'  I  seen  dead  hosses  a-plenty.  But  you 
need  n't  to  say  nothin'  about  that  in  the  letter.  Just 
tell  him  to  mosey  over  and  we'll  talk  it  out.  If  a  man 
what  knows  hosses  and  folks  like  he  does  wa'n't 
raised  in  the  West,  he  ought  to  been.  Heard  anything 
from  Adams?" 

"He  was  in  last  week.  He's  up  on  Baldy.  Packed 
some  stuff  up  to  the  lookout." 

"Uh-uh.  Now,  the  land  next  to  my  shack  on  the 
Blue  ain't  a  bad  place  for  this  here  writer.  I  got  the 

226 


City  Folks 

plat,  and  we  can  line  out  the  five  acres  this  fella  wants 
from  my  corner  post.  But  he's  comin'  in  kind  of  late 
to  build  a  camp." 

"It  will  be  good  weather  till  December,"  said  the 
clerk. 

"Well,  you  write  and  tell  him  to  come  over.  Seen 
anything  of  Hardy  and  his  men  lately?" 

"Not  since  last  Tuesday." 

"TJh-uh.  They're  millin'  around  like  a  lot  of 
burros  —  and  gettin'  nowhere.  But  Jim  Waring 's 
out  after  that  bunch  that  got  Pat.  If  I  was  n't  so 
hefty,  I  'd  'a'  gone  with  him.  I  tell  you  the  man  that 
got  Pat  ain't  goin'  to  live  long  to  brag  on  it." 

"  They  say  it  was  the  Brewster  boys,"  ventured  the 
stenographer. 

"They  say  lots  of  things,  son.  But  Jim  Waring 
knows.  God  help  the  man  that  shot  Pat  when  Jim 
Waring  meets  up  with  him.  And  I  want  to  tell  you 
somethin'.  Be  kind  of  careful  about  repeatin'  what 
'they  say'  to  anybody.  You  got  nothin'  to  back  you 
up  if  somebody  calls  your  hand.  'They'  ain't  goin' 
to  see  you  through.  And  you  named  the  Brewster 
boys.  Now,  just  suppose  one  of  the  Brewster  boys 
heard  of  it  and  come  over  askin'  you  what  you  meant? 
I  bet  you  a  new  hat  Jim  Waring  ain't  said  Brewster's 
name  to  a  soul  —  and  he  knows.  I  'm  goin'  over  to 
Stacey.  Any  mail  the  stage  did  n't  get?" 

"Letter  for  Mrs.  Adams." 

"Uh-uh.   Lorry  writes  to  his  ma  like  he  was  her 

227 


Tang  of  Life 

beau  —  reg'lar  and  plenty.  Funny  thing,  you  can't 
get  a  word  out  of  him  about  wimmin-folk,  neither. 
He  ain't  that  kind  of  a  colt.  But  I  reckon  when  he 
sees  the  gal  he  wants  he  '11  saddle  up  and  ride  out  and 
take  her."  And  Bud  chuckled. 

Bondsman  rapped  the  floor  with  his  tail.  Bonds- 
man never  failed  to  express  a  sympathetic  mood  when 
his  master  chuckled. 

"Now,  look  at  that,"  said  Shoop,  grinning.  "He 
knows  I  'm  goin'  over  to  Stacey .  He  heard  me  say  it. 
And  he  says  I  got  to  take  him  along, 'cause  he  knows 
I  ain't  goin'  on  a  hoss.  That  there  dog  bosses  me 
around  somethin'  scandalous." 

The  stenographer  smiled  as  Shoop  waddled  from 
the  office  with  Bondsman  at  his  heels.  There  was 
something  humorous,  almost  pathetic,  in  the  gaunt 
and  grizzled  Airedale's  affection  for  his  rotund  master. 
And  Shoop's  broad  back,  with  the  shoulders  stooped 
slightly  and  the  set  stride  as  he  plodded  here  and 
there,  often  made  the  clerk  smile.  Yet  there  was 
nothing  humorous  about  Shoop's  face  when  he 
flashed  to  anger  or  studied  some  one  who  tried  to 
mask  a  lie,  or  when  he  reprimanded  his  clerk  for 
naming  folk  that  it  was  hazardous  to  name. 

The  typewriter  clicked;  a  fly  buzzed  on  the  screen 
door;  a  beam  of  sunlight  flickered  through  the  win- 
dow. The  letter  ran:  — 

Yours  of  the  4th  inst.  received  and  contents  noted.  In 
answer  would  state  that  Supervisor  Shoop  would  be  glad 

£28 


City  Folks 

to  have  you  call  at  your  earliest  convenience  in  regard  to 
leasing  a  camp-site  on  the  White  Mountain  Reserve. 

Essentially  a  business  letter  of  the  correspondence- 
school  type. 

But  the  stenographer  was  not  thinking  of  style. 
He  was  wondering  what  the  girl  would  be  like.  There 
was  to  be  a  girl.  The  writer  had  said  that  he  wished 
to  build  a  camp  to  which  he  could  bring  his  daugh- 
ter, who  was  not  strong.  The  clerk  thought  that  a 
writer's  daughter  might  be  an  interesting  sort  of 
person.  Possibly  she  was  like  some  of  the  heroines 
in  the  writer's  stories.  It  would  be  interesting  to 
meet  her.  He  had  written  a  poem  once  himself.  It 
was  about  spring,  and  had  been  published  in  the 
local  paper.  He  wondered  if  the  writer's  daughter 
liked  poetry. 

In  the  meantime,  Lorry,  with  two  pack-animals 
and  Gray  Leg,  rode  the  hills  and  canons,  attending 
to  the  many  duties  of  a  ranger. 

And  as  he  caught  his  stride  in  the  work  he  began 
to  feel  that  he  was  his  own  man.  Miles  from  head- 
quarters, he  was  often  called  upon  to  make  a  quick 
decision  that  required  instant  and  individual  judg- 
ment. He  made  mistakes,  but  never  failed  to  report 
such  mistakes  to  Shoop.  Lorry  preferred  to  give  his 
own  version  of  an  affair  that  he  had  mishandled 
rather  than  to  have  to  explain  some  other  version 
later.  He  was  no  epitome  of  perfection.  He  was  in- 
clined to  be  arbitrary  when  he  knew  he  was  in  the 

229 


Tang  of  Life 

right.  Argument  irritated  him.  He  considered  his 
"Yes"  or  "No"  sufficient,  without  explanation. 

He  made  Shoop's  cabin  his  headquarters,  and 
spent  his  spare  time  cording  wood.  He  liked  his 
occupation,  and  felt  rather  independent  with  the 
comfortable  cabin,  a  good  supply  of  food,  a  corral 
and  pasture  for  the  ponies,  plenty  of  clear,  cold  water, 
and  a  hundred  trails  to  ride  each  day  from  dawn  to 
dark  as  he  should  choose.  Once  unfamiliar  with  the 
timber  country,  he  grew  to  love  the  twinkling  gold 
of  the  aspens,  the  twilight  vistas  of  the  spruce  and 
pines,  and  the  mighty  sweep  of  the  great  purple 
tides  of  forest  that  rolled  down  from  the  ranges  into 
a  sheer  of  space  that  had  no  boundary  save  the  sky. 

He  grew  a  trifle  thinner  in  the  high  country.  The 
desert  tan  of  his  cheeks  and  throat  deepened  to  a 
ruddy  bronze. 

Aside  from  pride  in  his  work,  he  took  special  pride 
in  his  equipment,  keeping  his  bits  and  conchas  pol- 
ished and  his  leather  gear  oiled.  Reluctantly  he  dis- 
carded his  chaps.  He  found  that  they  hindered  him 
when  working  on  foot.  Only  when  he  rode  into  Jason 
for  supplies  did  he  wear  his  chaps,  a  bit  of  cowboy 
vanity  quite  pardonable  in  his  years. 

If  he  ever  thought  of  women  at  all,  it  was  when 
he  lounged  and  smoked  by  the  evening  fire  in  the 
cabin,  sometimes  recalling  "that  Eastern  girl  with 
the  jim-dandy  mother."  He  wondered  if  they  ever 
thought  of  him,  and  he  wished  that  they  might  know 

230 


City  Folks 

he  was  now  a  full-fledged  ranger  with  man-size  re- 
sponsibilities. "And  mebby  they  think  I'm  ridin' 
south  yet,"  he  would  say  to  himself.  "I  must  have 
looked  like  I  did  n't  aim  to  pull  up  this  side  of  Texas, 
from  the  way  I  lit  out."  But,  then,  women  did  n't 
understand  such  things. 

Occasionally  he  confided  something  of  the  kind  to 
the  spluttering  fire,  laughing  as  he  recalled  the  leg  of 
lamb  with  which  he  had  waved  his  hasty  farewell. 
"  And  I  was  scared,  all  right.  But  I  was  n't  so  scared 
I  forgot  I'd  get  hungry."  Which  conclusion  seemed 
to  satisfy  him. 

When  he  learned  that  a  writer  had  leased  five  acres 
next  to  Bud's  cabin,  he  was  skeptical  as  to  how  he 
would  get  along  with  "strangers."  He  liked  elbow- 
room.  Yet,  on  second  thought,  it  would  make  no 
difference  to  him.  He  would  not  be  at  the  cabin  often 
nor  long  at  a  time.  The  evenings  were  lonely  some- 
times. 

But  when  camped  at  the  edge  of  the  timber  on  some 
mountain  meadow,  with  his  ponies  grazing  in  the 
starlit  dusk,  when  the  little,  leaping  flame  of  his  night 
fire  flung  ruddy  shadows  that  danced  in  giant  mimi- 
cry in  the  cavernous  arches  of  the  pines;  when  the 
faint  tinkle  of  the  belled  pack-horse  rang  a  faery 
cadence  in  the  distance;  then  there  was  no  such  thing 
as  loneliness  in  his  big,  outdoor  world.  Rather,  he 
was  content  in  a  solid  way.  An  inner  glow  of  satisfac- 
tion because  of  work  well  done,  a  sense  of  well-being, 

231 


Tang  of  Life 

founded  upon  perfect  physical  health  and  ease,  kept 
him  from  feeling  the  need  of  companionship  other  than 
that  of  his  horses.  Sometimes  he  sat  late  into  the 
night  watching  the  pine  gum  ooze  from  a  burning 
log  and  swell  to  golden  bubbles  that  puffed  into  tiny 
flames  and  vanished  in  smoky  whisperings.  At  such 
times  a  companion  would  not  have  been  unwelcome, 
yet  he  was  content  to  be  alone. 

Later,  when  Lorry  heard  that  the  writer  was  to 
bring  his  daughter  into  the  high  country,  he  expressed 
himself  to  Shoop's  stenographer  briefly:  "Oh,  hell!" 
Yet  the  expletive  was  not  offensive,  spoken  gently 
and  merely  emphasizing  Lorry's  attitude  toward 
things  feminine. 

While  Lorry  was  away  with  the  pack-horses  and 
a  week's  riding  ahead  of  him,  the  writer  arrived 
in  Jason,  introduced  himself  and  his  daughter,  —  a 
rather  slender  girl  of  perhaps  sixteen  or  eighteen,  — 
and  later,  accompanied  by  the  genial  Bud,  rode  up  to 
the  Blue  Mesa  and  inspected  the  proposed  camp- 
site. As  they  rode,  Bud  discoursed  upon  the  climate, 
ways  of  building  a  log  cabin,  wild  turkeys,  cattle, 
sheep,  grazing,  fuel,  and  water,  and  concluded  his 
discourse  with  a  dissertation  upon  dogs  in  general 
and  Airedales  in  particular.  The  writer  was  fond  of 
dogs  and  knew  something  about  Airedales.  This 
appealed  to  Shoop  even  more  than  had  the  writer's 
story  of  the  West. 

Arrived  at  the  mesa,  tentative  lines  were  run  and 

232 


City  Folks 

corners  marked.  The  next  day  two  Mormon  youths 
from  Jason  started  out  with  a  load  of  lumber  and 
hardware.  The  evening  of  the  second  day  following 
they  arrived  at  the  homestead,  pitched  a  tent,  and 
set  to  work.  That  night  they  unloaded  the  lumber. 
Next  morning  they  cleared  a  space  for  the  cabin.  By 
the  end  of  August  the  camp  was  finished.  The  Mor- 
mon boys,  to  whom  freighting  over  the  rugged  hills 
was  more  of  a  pastime  than  real  work,  brought  in  a 
few  pieces  of  furniture  —  iron  beds,  a  stove,  cooking- 
utensils,  and  the  hardware  and  provisions  incidental 
to  the  maintenance  of  a  home  in  the  wilderness. 

The  writer  and  his  daughter  rode  up  from  Jason 
with  the  final  load  of  supplies.  Excitement  and 
fatigue  had  so  overtaxed  the  girl's  slender  store  of 
strength  that  she  had  to  stay  in  bed  for  several  days. 
Meanwhile,  her  father  put  things  in  order.  The  two 
saddle-horses,  purchased  under  the  critical  eye  of 
Bud  Shoop,  showed  an  inclination  to  stray  back  to 
Jason,  so  the  writer  turned  them  into  Lorry's  cor- 
ral each  evening,  as  his  own  lease  was  not  entirely 
fenced. 

Riding  in  from  his  long  journey  one  night,  Lorry 
passed  close  to  the  new  cabin.  It  loomed  strangely 
raw  and  white  in  the  moonlight.  He  had  forgotten 
that  there  was  to  be  a  camp  near  his.  The  surprise 
rather  irritated  him.  Heretofore  he  had  considered 
the  Blue  Mesa  was  his  by  a  kind  of  natural  right.  He 
wondered  how  he  would  like  the  city  folks.  They 

233 


Tang  of  Life 

had  evidently  made  themselves  at  home.  Their  horses 
were  in  his  corral. 

As  he  unsaddled  Gray  Leg,  a  light  flared  up  in  the 
strange  camp.  The  door  opened,  and  a  man  came 
toward  him. 

"Good-evening,"  said  the  writer.  "I  hope  my 
horses  are  not  in  your  way." 

"Sure  not,"  said  Lorry  as  he  loosened  a  pack-rope. 

He  took  off  the  packs  and  lugged  them  to  the 
veranda.  The  tired  horses  rolled,  shook  themselves, 
and  meandered  toward  the  spring. 

"I'm  Bronson.  My  daughter  is  with  me.  We  are 
up  here  for  the  summer." 

"My  name  is  Adams,"  said  Lorry,  shaking  hands. 

"The  ranger  up  here.  Yes.  Well,  I'm  glad  to  meet 
you,  Adams.  My  daughter  and  I  get  along  wonder- 
fully, but  it  will  be  rather  nice  to  have  a  neighbor. 
I  heard  you  ride  by,  and  wanted  to  explain  about  my 
horses." 

"That's  all  right,  Mr.  Bronson.  Just  help  your- 
self." 

"Thank  you.  Dorothy  —  my  daughter  —  has  been 
under  the  weather  for  a  few  days.  She'll  be  up  to- 
morrow, I  think.  She  has  been  worrying  about  our 
using  your  corral.  I  told  her  you  would  not  mind." 

"Sure  not.  She's  sick,  did  you  say?" 

"Well,  overtired.   She  is  not  very  strong." 

"Lungs?"  queried  Lorry,  and  immediately  he 
could  have  kicked  himself  for  saying  it. 


City  Folks 

"I'm  afraid  so,  Adams.  I  thought  this  high  coun- 
try might  do  her  good." 

"It's  right  high  for  some.  Folks  got  to  take  it  easy 
at  first;  'specially  wimmin-folk.  I 'm  right  sorry  your 
girl  ain't  well." 

"Thank  you.  I  should  n't  have  mentioned  it.  She 
is  really  curious  to  know  how  you  live,  what  you  do, 
and,  in  fact,  what  a  real  live  ranger  looks  like.  Mr. 
Shoop  told  her  something  about  you  while  we  were  in 
Jason.  They  became  great  friends  while  the  camp 
was  building.  She  says  she  knows  all  about  you,  and 
tries  to  tease  me  by  keeping  it  to  herself." 

"Bud  —  my  boss  —  is  some  josher,"  was  all  that 
Lorry  could  think  of  to  say  at  the  time. 

Bronson  went  back  to  his  cabin.  Lorry,  entering 
his  camp,  lighted  the  lamp  and  built  a  fire.  The 
camp  looked  cozy  and  cheerful  after  a  week  on  the 
trail. 

When  he  had  eaten  he  sat  down  to  write  to  his 
mother.  He  would  tell  her  all  about  the  new  cabin 
and  the  city  folks.  But  before  he  had  written  more 
than  to  express  himself  "that  it  was  too  darned  bad 
a  girl  had  to  stay  up  in  the  woods  without  no  other 
wimmin-folks  around,"  he  became  drowsy.  The 
letter  remained  unfinished.  He  would  finish  it  to- 
morrow. He  would  smoke  awhile  and  then  go  to 
bed. 

A  healthy  young  animal  himself,  he  could  not 
understand  what  sickness  meant.  And  as  for  lungs 

235 


Tang  of  Life 

—  he  had  forgotten  there  were  such  things  in  a  per- 
son's make-up.  And  sick  folks  could  n't  eat  "regu- 
lar grub."  It  must  be  pretty  tough  not  to  be  able 
to  eat  heartily.  Now,  there  was  that  wild  turkey 
he  had  shot  near  the  Big  Spring.  He  tiptoed  to  the 
door.  The  lights  were  out  in  the  other  cabin.  It  was 
closed  season  for  turkey,  but  then  a  fellow  needed  a 
change  from  bacon  and  beans  once  in  a  while. 

He  had  hidden  the  turkey  in  a  gunny-sack  which 
hung  from  a  kitchen  rafter.  Should  he  leave  it  in 
the  sack,  hang  it  from  a  rafter  of  their  veranda,  out 
of  reach  of  a  chance  bobcat  or  coyote,  or  —  it  would 
be  much  more  of  a  real  surprise  to  hang  the  big  bird 
in  front  of  their  door  in  all  his  feathered  glory.  The 
sack  would  spoil  the  effect. 

He  took  off  his  boots  and  walked  cautiously  to 
the  other  cabin.  The  first  person  to  come  out  of  that 
cabin  next  morning  would  actually  bump  into  the 
turkey.  It  would  be  a  good  joke. 

"And  if  he's  the  right  kind  of  a  hombre  he  won't 
talk  about  it,"  thought  Lorry  as  he  returned  to  his 
camp.  "And  if  he  ain't,  I  am  out  one  fine  bird,  and 
I'll  know  to  watch  out  for  him." 


Chapter  XXI 

A  Slim  Whip  of  a  Girl 

WHEN  Bronson  opened  his  door  to  the 
thin  sunlight  and  the  crisp  chill  of  the 
morning,  he  chuckled.  He  had  made 
too  many  camps  in  the  outlands  to  be  surprised  by 
an  unexpected  gift  of  game  out  of  season.  His  neigh- 
bor was  a  ranger,  and  all  rangers  were  incidentally 
game  wardens.  Bronson  believed  heartily  in  the 
conservation  of  game,  and  in  this  instance  he  did 
not  intend  to  let  that  turkey  spoil. 

He  called  to  his  daughter. 

Her  brown  eyes  grew  big.   "Why,  it's  a  turkey!" 

Bronson  laughed.  "And  to-day  is  Sunday.  We'll 
have  a  housewarming  and  invite  the  ranger  to  dinner." 

"Did  he  give  it  to  you?  Is  n't  it  beautiful!  What 
big  wings  —  and  the  breast  feathers  are  like  little 
bronze  flames!  Do  wild  turkeys  really  fly?" 

"Well,  rather.  It's  a  fine  sight  to  see  them  run 
to  a  rim  rock  and  float  off  across  a  canon." 

"Did  you  tell  him  about  our  horses?  Is  he  nice? 
What  did  he  say?  But  I  could  never  imagine  a  tur- 
key like  that  flying.  I  always  think  of  turkeys  as 
strutting  around  a  farmyard  with  their  heads  held 
back  and  all  puffed  out  in  front.  This  one  is  heavy! 
I  can't  see  how  he  could  even  begin  to  fly." 

237 


Tang  of  Life 

"They  have  to  get  a  running  start.  Then  they 
usually  flop  along  and  sail  up  into  a  tree.  Once 
they  are  in  a  tree,  they  can  float  off  into  space 
easily.  They  seem  to  fly  slowly,  but  they  can  dis- 
appear fast  enough.  The  ranger  seems  to  be  a  nice 
chap." 

"Did  he  really  give  the  turkey  to  us?" 

"It  was  hanging  right  here  when  I  came  out.  I 
can't  say  that  he  gave  it  to  us.  You  see,  it  is  closed 
season  for  turkey." 

"But  we  must  thank  him." 

"We  will.  Let's  ask  him  to  dinner.  He  seems  to 
be  a  pleasant  chap;  quite  natural.  He  said  we  were 
welcome  to  keep  our  horses  in  his  corral.  But  if 
you  want  to  have  him  for  a  real  friendly  neighbor, 
Dorothy,  don't  mention  the  word  'turkey.'  We'll 
just  roast  it,  make  biscuits  and  gravy,  and  ask  him 
to  dinner.  He  will  understand." 

"Then  I  am  going  to  keep  the  wings  and  tail  to 
put  on  the  wall  of  my  room.  How  funny,  not  to 
thank  a  person  for  such  a  present." 

"The  supervisor  would  reprimand  him  for  kill- 
ing game  out  of  season,  if  he  heard  about  it." 

"But  just  one  turkey?" 

"That  is  n't  the  idea.  If  it  came  to  Mr.  Shoop 
that  one  of  his  men  was  breaking  the  game  laws, 
Mr.  Shoop  would  have  to  take  notice  of  it.  Not  that 
Shoop  would  care  about  one  of  his  men  killing  a 
turkey  to  eat,  but  it  would  hurt  the  prestige  of  the 


A  Slim  Whip  of  a  Girl 

Service.  The  natives  would  take  advantage  of  it 
and  help  themselves  to  game." 

"Of  course,  you  know  all  about  those  matters. 
But  can't  I  even  say  'turkey*  when  I  ask  him  to 
have  some?" 

"Oh,"  laughed  Bronson,  "call  it  chicken.  He'll 
eat  just  as  heartily." 

"The  ranger  is  up,"  said  Dorothy.  "I  can  hear 
him  whistling." 

"Then  let's  have  breakfast  and  get  this  big  fel- 
low ready  to  roast.  It  will  take  some  time." 

An  hour  later,  Lorry,  fresh-faced  and  smiling, 
knocked  on  the  lintel  of  their  open  doorway. 

Bronson,  in  his  shirt-sleeves  and  wearing  a  diminu- 
tive apron  to  which  clung  a  fluff  of  turkey  feathers, 
came  from  the  kitchen. 

"Good-morning.  You'll  excuse  my  daughter. 
She  is  busy." 

"I  just  came  over  to  ask  how  she  was." 

"Thank  you.  She  is  much  better.  We  want  you 
to  have  dinner  with  us." 

"Thanks.  But  I  got  some  beans  going  — " 

"But  this  is  chicken,  man!  And  it  is  Sunday." 

Lorry's  gray  eyes  twinkled.  "Chickens  are  right 
scarce  up  here.  And  chicken  sure  tastes  better  on 
Sunday.  Was  you  goin'  to  turn  your  stock  out  with 
mine?  " 

"That's  so!" 

They  turned  Bronson 's  horses  out,  and  watched 

239 


Tang  of  Life 

them  charge  down  the  mesa  toward  the  three  ani- 
mals grazing  lazily  in  the  morning  sunshine. 

"Your  horses  will  stick  with  mine,"  said  Lorry. 
"They  won't  stray  now." 

"Did  I  hear  a  piano  this  morning,  or  did  I  dream 
that  I  heard  some  one  playing?" 

"Oh,  it  was  me,  foolin'  with  Bud's  piano  in  there. 
Bud's  got  an  amazin'  music-box.  Ever  see  it?" 

"No.  I  have  n't  been  in  your  cabin." 

"Well,  come  right  along  over.  This  was  Bud's 
camp  when  he  was  homesteadin'.  Ever  see  a  piano 
like  that?" 

Bronson  gazed  at  the  carved  and  battered  piano, 
stepping  close  to  it  to  inspect  the  various  brands. 
"It  is  rather  amazing.  I  did  n't  know  Mr.  Shoop 
was  fond  of  music." 

"Well,  he  can't  play  reg'lar.  But  he  sure  likes  to 
try.  You  ought  to  hear  him  and  Bondsman  workin* 
out  that  'Annie  Laurie'  duet.  First  off,  you  feel 
like  laughin'.  But  Bud  gets  so  darned  serious  you 
kind  of  forget  he  ain't  a  professional.  'Annie  Laurie* 
ain't  no  dance  tune  —  and  when  Bud  and  the  dog 
get  at  it,  it  is  right  mournful." 

"I  have  seen  a  few  queer  things,"  —  and  Bron- 
son laughed,  —  "but  this  beats  them  all." 

"You'd  be  steppin'  square  on  Bud's  soul  if  you 
was  to  josh  him  about  that  piano,"  said  Lorry. 

"I  would  n't.  But  thank  you  just  the  same.  You 
have  a  neat  place  here,  Adams." 

240 


A  Slim  Whip  of  a  Girl 

"When  you  say  'neat'  you  say  it  all." 

"I  detest  a  fussy  camp.  One  gets  enough  of  that 
sort  of  thing  in  town.  Is  that  a  Gallup  saddle  or  a 
Frazier?" 

"Frazier." 

"I  used  a  Heiser  when  I  was  in  Mexico.  They're 
all  good." 

"That's  what  I  say.  But  there's  a  hundred 
cranks  to  every  make  of  saddle  and  every  rig.  You 
said  you  were  in  Mexico?" 

"Before  I  was  married.  As  a  young  man  I  worked 
for  some  of  the  mines.  I  went  there  from  college." 

"I  reckon  you've  rambled  some."  And  a  new 
interest  lightened  Lorry's  eyes.  Perhaps  this  man 
was  n't  a  "plumb  tenderfoot,"  after  all. 

"Oh,  not  so  much.  I  punched  cattle  down  on  the 
Hassayampa  and  in  the  Mogollons.  Then  I  drifted 
up  to  Alaska.  But  I  always  came  back  to  Arizona. 
New  Mexico  is  mighty  interesting,  and  so  is  Colorado. 
California  is  really  the  most  wonderful  State  of  all, 
but  somehow  I  can't  keep  away  from  Arizona." 

"Shake!  I  never  been  out  of  Arizona,  except  when 
I  was  a  kid,  but  she's  the  State  for  me." 

A  shadow  flickered  in  the  doorway.  Lorry  turned 
to  gaze  at  a  delicate  slip  of  a  girl,  whose  big  brown 
eyes  expressed  both  humor  and  trepidation. 

"My  daughter  Dorothy,  Mr.  Adams.  This  is  our 
neighbor,  Dorothy." 

"I'm  right  glad  to  meet  you,  miss/' 

241 


Tang  of  Life ' 

And  Lorry's  strong  fingers  closed  on  her  slender 
hand.  To  his  robust  sense  of  the  physical  she  ap- 
pealed as  something  exceedingly  fragile  and  beau- 
tiful, with  her  delicate,  clear  coloring  and  her  softly 
glowing  eyes.  What  a  little  hand!  And  what  a 
slender  arm!  And  yet  Lorry  thought  her  arm  pretty 
in  its  rounded  slenderness.  He  smiled  as  he  saw  a 
turkey  feather  fluttering  on  her  shoulder. 

"Looks  like  that  chicken  was  gettin'  the  best  of 
you,"  he  said,  smiling. 

"That's  just  it,"  she  agreed,  nothing  abashed. 
"Father,  you'll  have  to  help." 

"You'll  excuse  us,  won't  you?  We'll  finish  our 
visit  at  dinner." 

Lorry  had  reports  to  make  out.  He  dragged  a 
chair  to  the  table.  That  man  Bronson  was  all  right. 
Let 's  see  —  the  thirtieth  —  looked  stockier  in  day- 
light. Had  a  good  grip,  too,  and  a  clear,  level  eye. 
One  mattock  missing  in  the  lookout  cabin  —  and 
the  girl;  such  a  slender  whip  of  a  girl!  Just  like  a 
young  willow,  but  not  a  bit  like  an  invalid.  Buckley 
reports  that  his  man  will  have  the  sheep  across  the 
reservation  by  the  fourth  of  the  month.  Her  father 
had  said  she  was  not  over-strong.  And  her  eyes! 
Lorry  had  seen  little  fawns  with  eyes  like  that  — 
big,  questioning  eyes,  startled  rather  than  afraid. 

"Reckon  everything  she  sees  up  here  is  just  amaz- 
in''  her  at  every  jump.  I'll  bet  she's  happy,  even  if 
she  has  got  lungs.  Now,  a  fella  could  n't  help  but 

242 


A  Slim  Whip  of  a  Girl 

to  like  a  girl  like  that.  She  would  made  a  dandy 
sister,  and  a  fella  would  just  about  do  anything  in 
the  world  for  such  a  sister.  And  she  would  n't  have 
to  ask,  at  that.  He  would  just  naturally  want  to  do 
things  for  her,  because  —  well,  because  he  could  n't 
help  feeling  that  way.  Funny  how  some  wimmin 
made  a  man  feel  like  he  wanted  to  just  about  wor- 
ship them,  and  not  because  they  did  anything  ex- 
cept be  just  themselves.  Now,  there  was  that  Mrs. 
Weston.  She  was  a  jim-dandy  woman  —  but  she 
was  different.  She  always  seemed  to  know  just  what 
she  was  going  to  say  and  do.  And  Mrs.  Weston's 
girl,  Alice.  Reckon  I  'd  scrap  with  her  right  frequent. 
She  was  still—  " 

Dog-gone  it!  Where  was  he  drifting  to?  Sylves- 
tre's  sheep  were  five  days  crossing  the  reserve. 
Smith  reported  a  small  fire  north  of  the  lookout. 
The  Ainslee  boys  put  the  fire  out.  It  had  n't  done 
any  great  damage. 

Lorry  sat  back  and  chewed  the  lead  pencil.  As 
he  gazed  out  of  the  window  across  the  noon  mesa  a 
faint  fragrance  was  wafted  through  the  doorway. 
He  sniffed  and  grinned.  It  was  the  warm  flavor  of 
wild  turkey,  a  flavor  that  suggested  crispness,  with 
juicy  white  meat  beneath.  Lorry  jumped  up  and 
grabbed  a  pail  as  he  left  the  cabin.  On  his  way  back 
from  the  spring,  Bronson  waved  to  him.  Lorry 
nodded.  And  presently  he  presented  himself  at 
Bronson's  cabin,  his  face  glowing,  his  flannel  shirt 

243 


Tang  of  Life 

neatly  brushed,  and  a  dark-blue  silk  bandanna 
knotted  gracefully  at  his  throat. 

"This  is  the  princess,"  said  Bronson,  gesturing 
toward  his  daughter.  "And  here  is  the  feast." 

"And  it  was  a  piano,"  continued  Bronson  as  they 
sat  down. 

"Really?  'Way  up  here?" 

"My  daughter  plays  a  little,"  explained  Bronson. 

"Well,  you're  sure  welcome  to  use  that  piano  any 
time.  If  I  'm  gone,  the  door  is  unlocked  just  the  same." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Adams,  I  only  play  to  amuse 
myself  now." 

Lorry  fancied  there  was  a  note  of  regret  in  her  last 
word.  He  glanced  at  her.  She  was  gazing  wistfully 
out  of  the  window.  It  hurt  him  to  see  that  tinge  of 
hopelessness  on  her  young  face. 

"This  here  chicken  is  fine!"  he  asserted. 

The  girl's  eyes  were  turned  to  him.  She  smiled 
and  glanced  roguishly  at  her  father.  Lorry  laughed 
outright. 

"What  is  the  joke?"  she  demanded. 

"Nothin';  only  my  plate  is  empty,  Miss  Bronson." 

Bronson  grabbed  up  carving-knife  and  fork. 
"Great  Caesar!  I  must  have  been  dreaming.  I  was 
dreaming.  I  was  recalling  a  turkey  hunt  down  in 
Virginia  with  Colonel  Stillwell  and  his  man  Plato. 
Plato  was  a  good  caller  —  but  we  did  n't  get  a  tur- 
key. Now,  this  is  as  tender  as  —  as  it  ought  to  be. 
A  little  more  gravy?  And  as  we  came  home,  the 

244 


A  Slim  Whip  of  a  Girl 

colonel,  who  was  of  the  real  mint-julep  type,  pro- 
posed as  a  joke  that  Plato  see  what  he  could  do  to- 
ward getting  some  kind  of  bird  for  dinner  that  night. 
And  when  Plato  lifted  the  covers,  sure  enough  there 
was  a  fine,  fat  roast  chicken.  The  colonel,  who  lived 
in  town  and  did  not  keep  chickens,  asked  Plato  how 
much  he  had  paid  for  it.  Plato  almost  dropped  the 
cover.  'Mars'  George,'  he  said  with  real  solicitude  in 
his  voice,  *  is  you  sick?'  And  speaking  of  turkeys — " 

"Who  was  speaking  of  turkeys?"  asked  Dorothy. 

"Why,  I  think  this  chicken  is  superior  to  any 
domestic  turkey  I  ever  tasted,"  concluded  Bronson. 

"Was  you  ever  in  politics?"  queried  Lorry.  And 
they  all  laughed  heartily. 

After  dinner  Lorry  asked  for  an  apron. 

Dorothy  shook  her  finger  at  him.  "It's  nice  of 
you  —  but  you  don't  mean  it." 

"Now,  ma  would  n't  'a'  said  that,  miss.  She'd 
'a'  just  tied  one  of  her  aprons  on  me  and  turned  me 
loose  on  the  dishes.  I  used  to  help  her  like  that  when 
I  was  a  kid.  Ma  runs  the  hotel  at  Stacey." 

"Why,  didn't  we  stop  there  for  dinner?"  asked 
Dorothy. 

"Yes,  indeed.  All  right,  Adams,  I'll  wash  'em  and 
you  can  dry  'em,  and  Dorothy  can  rest." 

"It's  a  right  smilin'  little  apron,"  commented 
Lorry  as  Dorothy  handed  it  to  him. 

"And  you  do  look  funny!  My,  I  did  n't  know  you 
were  so  big!  I'll  have  to  get  a  pin." 

245 


Tang  of  Life 

"I  reckon  it's  the  apron  looks  funny,"  said  Lorry. 

"I  made  it,"  she  said,  teasing  him. 

"Then  that's  why  it  is  so  pretty,"  said  Lorry 
gravely. 

Dorothy  decided  to  change  the  subject.  "I  think 
you  should  let  me  wash  the  dishes,  father." 

"You  cooked  the  dinner,  Peter  Pan." 

"Then  I'll  go  over  and  try  the  piano.  May  I?" 

"If  you'll  play  for  us  when  we  come  over,  Miss 
Bronson." 

Bronson  and  Lorry  sat  on  the  veranda  and  smoked. 
Dorothy  was  playing  a  sprightly  melody.  She  ceased 
to  play,  and  presently  the  sweet  old  tune  "Annie 
Laurie"  came  to  them.  Lorry,  with  cigarette  poised 
in  his  fingers,  hummed  the  words  to  himself.  Bron- 
son was  watching  him  curiously.  The  melody  came 
to  an  end.  Lorry  sighed. 

"Sounds  like  that  ole  piano  was  just  singin'  its 
heart  out  all  by  itself,"  he  said.  "I  wish  Bud  could 
hear  that." 

Almost  immediately  came  the  sprightly  notes  of 
"Anitra's  Dance." 

"And  that's  these  here  woods  —  and  the  water 
prancin'  down  the  rocks,  and  a  slim  kind  of  a  girl 
dancin'  in  the  sunshine  and  then  runnin'  away  to 
hide  in  the  woods  again."  And  Lorry  laughed  softly 
at  his  own  conceit. 

"Do  you  know  the  tune?"  queried  Bronson. 

"Nope.  I  was  just  makin'  that  up." 

246 


A  Slim  Whip  of  a  Girl 

"That's  just  Dorothy,"  said  Bronson. 

Lorry  turned  and  gazed  at  him.  And  without 
knowing  how  it  came  about,  Lorry  understood  that 
there  had  been  another  Dorothy  who  had  played  and 
sung  and  danced  in  the  sunshine.  And  that  this 
sprightly,  slender  girl  was  a  bud  of  that  vanished 
flower,  a  bud  whose  unfolding  Bronson  watched  with 
such  deep  solicitude. 


Chapter  XXII 
A  Tune  for  Uncle  Bud 

LORRY  had  ridden  to  Jason,  delivered  his  re- 
ports to  the  office,  and  received  instructions 
to  ride  to  the  southern  line  of  the  reserva- 
tion. He  would  be  out  many  days.  He  had  brought 
down  a  pack-horse,  and  he  returned  to  camp  late 
that  night  with  provisions  and  some  mail  for  the 
Bronsons. 

The  next  day  he  delayed  starting  until  Dorothy 
had  appeared.  Bronson  told  him  frankly  that  he  was 
sorry  to  see  him  go,  especially  for  such  a  length  of 
time. 

"But  I'm  glad,"  said  Dorothy. 

Lorry  stared  at  her.  Her  face  was  grave,  but  there 
was  a  twinkle  of  mischief  in  her  eyes.  She  laughed. 

"Because  it  will  be  such  fun  welcoming  you  home 
again." 

"Oh,  I  thought  it  might  be  that  piano  — " 

"Now  I  shan't  touch  it!"  she  pouted,  making  a 
deliberate  face  at  him. 

He  laughed.  She  did  such  unexpected  things, 
did  them  so  unaffectedly.  Bronson  put  his  arms 
about  her  shoulders. 

"We're  keeping  Mr.  Adams,  Peter  Pan.  He  is 
anxious  to  be  off.  He  has  been  ready  for  quite  a 

248 


A  Tune  for  Uncle  Bud 

while  and  I  think  he  has  been  waiting  till  you  ap- 
peared so  that  he  could  say  good-bye." 

"Are  you  anxious  to  be  off?"  she  queried. 

"Yes,  ma'am.  It's  twenty  miles  over  the  ridge  to 
good  grass  and  water." 

"Why,  twenty  miles  isn't  so  far!" 

"They 's  considerable  up  and  down  in  them  twenty 
miles,  Miss  Bronson.  Now,  it  would  n't  be  so  far  for 
a  turkey.  He  could  fly  most  of  the  way.  But  a  horse 
is  different,  and  I'm  packin'  a  right  fair  jag  of  stuff." 

"Well,  good-bye,  ranger  man.  Good-bye,  Gray 
Leg,  —  and  you  two  poor  horses  that  have  to  carry 
the  packs.  Don't  stay  away  all  winter." 

Lorry  swung  up  and  started  the  pack-horses.  At 
the  edge  of  the  timber  he  turned  and  waved  his  hat. 
Dorothy  and  her  father  answered  with  a  hearty  Good- 
bye that  echoed  through  the  slumbering  wood  lands. 

One  of  Bronson's  horses  raised  his  head  and  nick- 
ered. "Chinook  is  saying  'Adios,'  too.  Isn't  the  air 
good?  And  we're  right  on  top  of  the  world.  There 
is  Jason,  and  there  is  St.  Johns,  and  'way  over  there 
ought  to  be  the  railroad,  but  I  can't  see  it." 

Bronson  smiled  down  at  her. 

She  reached  up  and  pinched  his  cheek.  "Let's 
stay  here  forever,  daddy." 

"We'll  see  how  my  girl  is  by  September.  And 
next  year,  if  you  want  to  come  back  — " 

"Come  back!  Why,  I  don't  want  to  go  away — • 
ever!" 

249 


Tang  of  Life 

"But  the  snow,  Peter  Pan." 

"I  forgot  that.  We'd  be  frozen  in  tight,  should  n't 
we?" 

"I'm  afraid  we  should.  Shall  we  look  at  the  mail? 
Then  I'll  have  to  go  to  work." 

"Mr.  Adams  thinks  quite  a  lot  of  his  horses, 
does  n't  he?"  she  queried. 

"He  has  to.  He  depends  on  them,  and  they  de- 
pend on  him.  He  has  to  take  good  care  of  them." 

"I  should  n't  like  it  a  bit  if  I  thought  he  took  care 
of  them  just  because  he  had  to." 

"Oh,  Adams  is  all  right,  Peter.  I  have  noticed  one 
or  two  things  about  him." 

"Well,  I  have  noticed  that  he  has  a  tremendous 
appetite,"  laughed  Dorothy. 

"And  you're  going  to  have,  before  we  leave  here, 
Peter  Pan." 

"Then  you'd  better  hurry  and  get  that  story 
written.  I  want  a  new  saddle  and,  oh,  lots  of 
things!" 

Bronson  patted  her  hand  as  she  walked  with  him 
to  the  cabin.  He  sat  down  to  his  typewriter,  and  she 
came  out  with  a  book. 

She  glanced  up  occasionally  to  watch  the  ponies 
grazing  on  the  mesa.  She  was  deeply  absorbed  in 
her  story  when  some  one  called  to  her.  She  jumped 
up,  dropping  her  book. 

Bud  Shoop  was  sitting  his  horse  a  few  paces  away, 
smiling.  He  had  ridden  up  quietly  to  surprise  her. 

250 


A  Tune  for  Uncle  Bud 

"A  right  lovely  mornin',  Miss  Bronson.  I  reckon 
your  daddy  is  busy." 

"Here  I  am,"  said  Bronson,  striding  out  and  shak 
ing  hands  with  the  supervisor.  "Won't  you  come 
in?" 

"About  that  lease,"  said  Shoop,  dismounting. 
"If  you  got  time  to  talk  business." 

"Most  certainly.  Dorothy  will  excuse  us." 

"Is  Adams  gone?" 

"He  left  this  morning." 

"Uh-uh.  Here,  Bondsman,  quit  botherin'  the 
young  lady." 

"He  isn't  bothering.  I  know  what  he  wants." 
And  she  ran  to  the  kitchen. 

Shoop's  face  grew  grave.  "I  did  n't  want  to  scare 
the  little  lady,  Bronson,  but  Lorry's  father  —  Jim 
Waring  —  has  been  shot  up  bad  over  to  Criswell. 
He  went  in  after  that  Brewster  outfit  that  killed  Pat. 
I  reckon  he  got  'em  —  but  I  ain't  heard." 

"Adams's  father!" 

"Yes,  Jim  Waring.  Here  comes  the  little  missy. 
I'll  tell  you  later.  Now  Bondsman  is  sure  happy." 

And  Bud  forced  a  smile  as  Dorothy  gave  the  dog  a 
pan  of  something  that  looked  suspiciously  like  bones 
and  shreds  of  turkey  meat. 

A  little  later  Bud  found  excuse  to  call  Bronson 
aside  to  show  him  a  good  place  to  fence-in  the  corral. 
Dorothy  was  playing  with  Bondsman. 

"Jim's  been  shot  up  bad.   I  was  goin'  to  tell  you 


Tang  of  Life 

that  Annie  Adams,  over  to  Stacey,  is  his  wife.  She 
left  him  when  they  was  livin'  down  in  Mexico.  Lorry 
is  their  boy.  Now,  Jim  is  as  straight  as  a  ruler;  I 
don't  know  just  why  she  left  him.  But  let  that  rest. 
I  got  a  telegram  from  the  marshal  of  Criswell.  Reads 
like  Jim  was  livin',  but  livin'  mighty  clost  to  the  edge. 
Now,  if  I  was  to  send  word  to  Lorry  he'd  just  nacher- 
ally  buckle  on  a  gun  and  go  after  them  Brewster  boys, 
if  they's  any  of  'em  left.  He  might  listen  to  me  if  I 
could  talk  to  him.  Writin*  is  no  good.  And  I  ain't 
rigged  up  to  follow  him  across  the  ridge.  It's  bad 
country  over  there.  I  reckon  I  better  leave  word  with 
you.  If  he  gets  word  of  the  shootin*  while  he's  out 
there,  he'll  just  up  and  cut  across  the  hills  to  Cris- 
well a-smokin'.  But  if  he  gets  this  far  back  he's  like 
to  come  through  Jason  —  and  I  can  cool  him  down, 
mebby." 

"He  ought  to  know;  if  his  father  is  — " 
"That's  just  it.  But  I 'm  thinkin' of  the  boy .  Jim 
Waring 's  lived  a  big  chunk  of  his  life.  But  they  ain't 
no  use  of  the  kid  gettin'  shot  up.  It  figures  fifty  that 
I  ought  to  get  word  to  him,  and  fifty  that  I  ought  to 
keep  him  out  of  trouble  — " 

"I  did  n't  know  he  was  that  kind  of  a  chap:  that 
is,  that  he  would  go  out  after  those  men  — " 
"He's  Jim  Waring's  boy,"  said  Bud. 
"It's  too  bad.  I  heard  of  that  other  killing." 
"Yes.    And  I've  a  darned  good  mind  to  fly  over 
to  Criswell  myself.   I  knowed  Pat  better  than  I  did 

252 


A  Tune  for  Uncle  Bud 

Jim.  But  I  can't  ride  like  I  used  to.  But" — and 
the  supervisor  sighed  heavily  —  "I  reckon  I'll  go 
just  the  same." 

"I'll  give  your  message  to  Adams,  Mr.  Shoop." 

"All  right.  And  tell  him  I  want  to  see  him.  How's 
the  little  lady  these  days?" 

"She  seems  to  be  much  stronger,  and  she  is  in  love 
with  the  hills  and  canons." 

"I'm  right  glad  of  that.  Kind  of  wish  I  was  up 
here  myself.  Why,  already  they're  houndin'  me 
down  there  to  go  into  politics.  I  guess  they  want  to 
get  me  out  of  this  job,  'cause  I  can't  hear  crooked 
money  jingle.  My  hands  feels  sticky  ever'  time  I 
think  of  politics.  And  even  if  a  fella's  hands  ain't 
sticky  —  politics  money  is.  Why,  it's  like  to  stick 
to  his  feet  if  he  ain't  right  careful  where  he  walks!" 

"I  wish  you  would  stay  to  dinner,  Mr.  Shoop." 

"So  I'll  set  and  talk  my  fool  notions  —  and  you 
with  a  writin'  machine  handy?  Thanks,  but  I  reckon 
I'll  light  a  shuck  for  Jason.  See  my  piano?" 

"Yes,  indeed.  Dorothy  was  trying  it  a  few  nights 
ago." 

"Then  she  can  play.  Missy,"  and  he  called  to 
Dorothy,  who  was  having  an  extravagant  romp  with 
Bondsman,  "could  you  play  a  tune  for  your  Uncle 
Bud?" 

"Of  course."  And  she  came  to  them. 

They  walked  to  the  cabin.  Bondsman  did  not  fol- 
low. He  had  had  a  hard  play,  and  was  willing  to  rest. 

253 


Tang  of  Life 

Dorothy  drew  up  the  piano  stool  and  touched  the 
keys.  Bud  sank  into  his  big  chair.  Bronson  stood  in 
the  doorway.  By  some  happy  chance  Dorothy  played 
Bud's  beloved  "Annie  Laurie." 

When  she  had  finished,  Bud  blew  his  nose  sono- 
rously. "I  know  that  tune,"  he  said,  gazing  at  Dor- 
othy in  a  sort  of  huge  wonderment.  "But  I  never 
knowed  all  that  you  made  it  say." 

He  rose  and  shuffled  to  the  doorway,  stopping 
abruptly  as  he  saw  Bondsman.  Could  it  be  possible 
that  Bondsman  had  not  recognized  his  own  tune? 
Bud  shook  his  head.  There  was  something  wrong 
somewhere.  Bondsman  had  not  offered  to  come  in 
and  accompany  the  pianist.  He  must  have  been 
asleep.  But  Bondsman  had  not  been  asleep.  He  rose 
and  padded  to  Shoop's  horse,  where  he  stood,  a  statue 
of  rugged  patience,  waiting  for  Shoop  to  start  back 
toward  home. 

"Now,  look  at  that!"  exclaimed  Bud.  "He's 
tellin'  me  if  I  want  to  get  back  to  Jason  in  time  to 
catch  the  stage  to-morrow  mornin'  I  got  to  hustle. 
That  there  dog  bosses  me  around  somethin'  scanda- 
lous." 

When  Shoop  had  gone,  Dorothy  turned  to  her 
father.  "Mr.  Shoop  did  n't  ask  me  to  play  very  much, 
He  seemed  in  a  hurry." 

"That's  all  right,  Peter  Pan.  He  liked  your  play- 
ing. But  he  has  a  very  important  matter  to  attend 
to." 

254 


A  Tune  for  Uncle  Bud 

"He's  really  just  delicious,  is  n't  he?" 
"If  you  like  that  word,  Peter.   He  is  big  and  sin- 
cere and  kind." 

"Oh,  so  were  some  of  the  saints  for  that  matter," 
said  Dorothy,  making  a  humorous  mouth  at  her 
father. 


Chapter  XXII! 

Like  One  Who  Sleeps 

BONDSMAN  sat  in  the  doorway  of  the  super* 
visor's  office,  gazing  dejectedly  at  the  store 
across  the  street.  He  knew  that  his  master 
had  gone  to  St.  Johns  and  would  go  to  Stacey.  He 
had  been  told  all  about  that,  and  had  followed  Shoop 
to  the  automobile  stage,  where  it  stood,  sand-scarred, 
muddy,  and  ragged  as  to  tires,  in  front  of  the  post- 
office.  Bondsman  had  watched  the  driver  rope  the 
lean  mail  bags  to  the  running-board,  crank  up  the 
sturdy  old  road  warrior  of  the  desert,  and  step  in  be- 
side the  supervisor.  There  had  been  no  other  passen- 
gers. And  while  Shoop  had  told  Bondsman  that  he 
would  be  away  some  little  time,  Bondsman  would  have 
known  it  without  the  telling.  His  master  had  worn 
a  coat  —  a  black  coat  —  and  a  new  black  Stetson. 
Moreover,  he  had  donned  a  white  shirt  and  a  nar- 
row hint  of  a  collar  with  a  black  "  shoe-string  "  necktie. 
If  Bondsman  had  lacked  any  further  proof  of  his 
master's  intention  to  journey  far,  the  canvas  tele- 
scope suitcase  would  have  been  conclusive  evidence. 
The  dog  sat  in  the  doorway  of  the  office,  oblivious 
to  the  clerk's  friendly  assurances  that  his  master 
would  return  poco  tiempo.  Bondsman  was  not  de- 
ceived by  this  kindly  attempt  to  soothe  his  loneliness. 

256 


Like  One  Who  Sleeps 

Toward  evening  the  up-stage  buzzed  into  town. 
Bondsman  trotted  over  to  it,  watched  a  rancher  and 
his  wife  alight,  sniffed  at  them  incuriously,  and  trotted 
back  to  the  office.  That  settled  it.  His  master  would 
be  away  indefinitely. 

When  the  clerk  locked  up  that  evening,  Bondsman 
had  disappeared. 

As  Bronson  stepped  from  his  cabin  the  following 
morning  he  was  startled  to  see  the  big  Airedale  leap 
from  the  veranda  of  Snoop's  cabin  and  bound  toward 
him.  Then  he  understood.  The  camp  had  been 
Bondsman's  home.  The  supervisor  had  gone  to  Cris- 
well.  Evidently  the  dog  preferred  the  lonely  free- 
dom of  the  Blue  Mesa  to  the  monotonous  confines 
of  town. 

Bronson  called  to  his  daughter.  "We  have  a  visitor 
this  morning,  Dorothy." 

"Why,  it's  Bondsman!  Where  is  Mr.  Shoop?" 

"Most  natural  question.  Mr.  Shoop  had  to  leave 
Jason  on  business.  Bondsman  could  n't  go,  so  he 
trotted  up  here  to  pay  us  a  visit." 

"He's  hungry.  I  know  it.   Come,  Bondsman." 

From  that  moment  he  attached  himself  to  Dorothy, 
following  her  about  that  day  and  the  next  and  the 
next.  But  when  night  came  he  invariably  trotted 
over  to  Shoop's  cabin  and  slept  on  the  veranda. 
Dorothy  wondered  why  he  would  not  sleep  at  their 
camp. 

"He?p  very  friendly,"  she  told  her  father.    "He 


Tang  of  Life 

will  play  and  chase  sticks  and  growl,  and  pretend  to 
bite  when  I  tickle  him,  but  he  does  it  all  with  a  kind 
of  mental  reservation.  Yesterday,  when  we  were 
having  our  regular  frolic  after  breakfast,  he  stopped 
suddenly  and  stood  looking  out  across  the  mesa,  and 
it  was  only  my  pony,  just  coming  from  the  edge  of 
the  woods.  Bondsman  tries  to  be  polite,  but  he  is 
really  just  passing  the  time  while  he  is  waiting  for 
Mr.  Shoop." 

"You  don't  feel  flattered,  perhaps.  But  don't  you 
admire  him  all  the  more  for  it?" 

"I  believe  I  do.  Poor  Bondsman!  It's  just  like 
being  a  social  pet,  is  n't  it?  Have  to  appear  happy 
whether  you  are  or  not." 

Bondsman  knew  that  she  proffered  sympathy,  an<J 
he  licked  her  hand  lazily,  gazing  up  at  her  with 
bright,  unreadable  eyes. 

Bud  Shoop  wasted  no  time  in  Stacey.  He  puffed 
into  the  hotel,  indecision  behind  him  and  a  definite 
object  in  view. 

"No  use  talkin',"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Adams.  "We 
got  to  go  and  take  care  of  Jim.  I  could  n't  get  word 
to  Lorry.  No  tellin'  where  to  locate  him  just  now. 
Mebby  it's  just  as  well.  They's  a  train  west  along 
about  midnight.  Now,  you  get  somebody  to  stay  here 
till  we  get  back— " 

"But,  Mr.  Shoop !  I  can't  leave  like  this.  I  have  n't 
a  thing  ready.  Anita  can't  manage  alone." 

258 


Like  One  Who  Sleeps 

."Well,  if  that's  all,  I  admire  to  say  that  I'll  set 
right  down  and  run  this  here  hotel  myself  till  you  get 
back.  But  it  ain't  right,  your  travelin'  down  there 
alone.  We  used  to  be  right  good  friends,  Annie.  Do 
you  reckon  I'd  tell  you  to  go  see  Jim  if  it  wa'n't 
right?  If  he  ever  needed  you,  it's  right  now.  If  he's 
goin'  to  get  well,  your  bein'  there'll  help  him  a  pow'ful 
sight.  And  if  he  ain't,  you  ought  to  be  there,  any- 
how." 

"I  know  it,  Bud.  I  wish  Lorry  was  here." 

"I  don't.  I'm  mighty  glad  he's  out  there  where  he 
is.  What  do  you  think  he'd  do  if  he  knowed  Jim  was 
shot  up?" 

"He  would  go  to  his  father  — " 

"Uh-uh?" 

"And—" 

"Go  ahead.   You  wa'n't  born  yesterday." 

"He  would  listen  to  me,"  she  concluded  weakly. 

"Yep.  But  only  while  you  was  talkin'.  That  boy 
is  your  boy  all  right,  but  he's  got  a  lot  of  Jim  Waring 
under  his  hide.  And  if  you  want  to  keep  that  there 
hide  from  gettin'  shot  full  of  holes  by  a  no-account 
outlaw,  you'll  just  pack  up  and  come  along." 

Bud  wiped  his  forehead,  and  puffed.  This  sort  of 
thing  was  not  exactly  in  his  line. 

"Here's  the  point,  Annie,"  he  continued.  "If  I 
get  there  afore  Lorry,  and  you  're  there,  he  won't  get 
into  trouble.  Mebby  you  could  hold  him  with  your 
hand  on  the  bridle,  but  he's  runnin'  loose  right  where 

t  259 


Tang  of  Life 

he  is.  Can't  you  get  some  lady  in  town  to  run  the 
place?" 

"I  don't  know.  I '11  see." 

Bud  heaved  a  sigh.  It  was  noticeably  warmer  in 
Stacey  than  at  Jason. 

Bud's  reasoning,  while  rough,  had  appealed  to 
Mrs.  Adams.  She  felt  that  she  ought  to  go.  She  had 
only  needed  some  such  impetus  to  send  her  straight 
to  Waring.  The  town  marshal's  telegram  had  stunned 
her.  She  knew  that  her  husband  had  followed  the 
Brewsters,  but  she  had  not  anticipated  the  awful 
result  of  his  quest.  In  former  times  he  had  always 
come  back  to  her,  taking  up  the  routine  of  their  home 
life  quietly.  But  this  time  he  had  not  come  back.  If 
only  he  had  listened  to  her!  And  deep  in  her  heart 
she  felt  that  old  jealousy  for  the  lure  which  had  so 
often  called  him  from  her  to  ride  the  grim  trails  of 
his  profession.  But  this  time  he  had  not  come  back. 
She  would  go  to  him,  and  never  leave  him  again. 

Anita  thought  she  knew  of  a  woman  who  would 
take  charge  of  the  hotel  during  Mrs.  Adams's  absence. 
Without  waiting  for  an  assurance  of  this,  Bud  pur- 
chased tickets,  sent  a  letter  to  his  clerk,  and  spent 
half  an  hour  in  the  barber  shop. 

"Somebody  dead?"  queried  the  barber  as  Bud 
settled  himself  in  the  chair. 

"Not  that  I  heard  of.  Why?" 

"Oh,  nothing,  Mr.  Shoop.  I  seen  that  you  was 
dressed  in  black  and  had  on  a  black  tie  — " 

260 


Like  One  Who  Sleeps 

Later,  as  Bud  surveyed  himself  in  the  glass,  trying 
ineffectually  to  dodge  the  barber's  persistent  whisk- 
broom,  he  decided  that  he  did  look  a  bit  funereal.  And 
when  he  appeared  at  the  supper  table  that  evening  he 
wore  an  ambitious  four-in-hand  tie  of  red  and  yellow. 
There  was  going  to  be  no  funeral  or  anything  that 
looked  like  it,  if  he  knew  it. 

Aboard  the  midnight  train  he  made  Mrs.  Adams 
comfortable  in  the  chair  car.  It  was  but  a  few  hours' 
rim  to  The  Junction.  He  went  to  the  smoker,  took 
off  his  coat,  and  lit  a  cigar.  Around  him  men  sprawled 
in  all  sorts  of  awkward  attitudes,  sleeping  or  trying 
to  sleep.  He  had  heard  nothing  further  about  War- 
ing's  fight  with  the  Brewsters.  They  might  still  be 
at  large.  But  he  doubted  it.  If  they  were  —  Shoop 
recalled  the  friendly  shooting  contest  with  High-Chin 
Bob.  If  High  Chin  were  riding  the  country,  doubtless 
he  would  be  headed  south.  But  if  he  should  happen 
to  cross  Snoop's  trail  by  accident  —  Bud  shook  his 
head.  He  would  not  look  for  trouble,  but  if  it  came 
his  way  it  would  bump  into  something  solid. 

Shoop  had  buckled  on  his  gun  before  leaving  Jason. 
His  position  as  supervisor  made  him  automatically 
a  deputy  sheriff.  But  had  he  been  nothing  more  than 
a  citizen  homesteader,  his  aim  would  have  been  quite 
as  sincere. 

It  was  nearly  daylight  when  they  arrived  at  The 
Junction.  Shoop  accompanied  Mrs.  Adams  to  a 
hotel.  After  breakfast  he  went  out  to  get  a  buck- 

261 


Tang  of  Life 

board  and  team.  Criswell  was  not  on  the  line  of  the 
railroad. 

They  arrived  in  Criswell  that  evening,  and  were 
directed  to  the  marshal's  house,  where  Ramon  met 
them. 

"How's  Jim?"  was  Shoop's  immediate  query. 

"The  Senor  Jim  is  like  one  who  sleeps,"  said 
Ramon. 

Mrs.  Adams  grasped  Shoop's  arm. 

"He  wakens  only  when  the  doctor  is  come.  He 
has  spoken  your  name,  senora." 

The  marshal's  wife,  a  thin,  worried-looking  woman, 
apologized  for  the  untidy  condition  of  her  home,  the 
reason  for  which  she  wished  to  make  obvious.  She 
was  of  the  type  which  Shoop  designated  to  himself  as 
"vinegar  and  salt." 

"Reckon  I  better  go  in  first,  Annie?" 

"No."  And  Mrs.  Adams  opened  the  door  indicated 
by  the  other  woman. 

Shoop  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  white  face.  The  door 
closed  softly.  Shoop  turned  to  Ramon. 

"Let's  go  take  a  smoke,  eh?" 

Ramon  led  the  way  down  the  street  and  on  out 
toward  the  desert.  At  the  edge  of  town,  he  paused 
and  pointed  across  the  spaces. 

"It  was  out  there,  senor.  I  found  him.  The  others 
were  not  found  until  the  morning.  I  did  not  know 
that  they  were  there." 

"The  others?  How  many?" 

262 


Like  One  Who  Sleeps 

"Three.  One  will  live,  but  he  will  never  ride  again. 
The  others,  High  of  the  Chin  and  his  brother,  were 
buried  by  the  marshal.  None  came  to  claim  them." 

"Were  you  in  it?" 

"No,  senor.  It  was  alone  that  Senor  Jim  fought 
them.  He  followed  them  out  there  alone.  I  come 
and  I  ask  where  he  is  gone.  I  find  him  that  night. 
I  do  not  know  that  he  is  alive." 

"What  became  of  his  horse?" 

"Dex  he  come  back  with  no  one  on  him.  It  is  then 
that  I  tell  Dex  to  find  for  me  the  Senor  Jim." 

"And  he  trailed  back  to  where  Jim  went  down,  eh? 
Uh-uh!  I  got  a  dog  myself." 

"Will  the  Senor  Jim  ride  again?"  queried  Ramon. 

"I  dunno,  boy,  I  dunno.  But  if  you  and  me  and 
the  doc  and  the  senora  —  and  mebby  God  —  get 
busy,  why,  mebby  he'll  stand  a  chance.  How  many 
times  was  he  hit?" 

"Two  times  they  shot  him." 

"Two,  eh?  Well,  speakin'  from  experience,  they 
was  three  mighty  fast  guns  ag'in'  him.  Say  five  shots 
in  each  gun,  which  is  fifteen.  And  he  had  to  reload, 
most-like,  for  he  can  empty  a  gun  quicker  than  you 
can  think.  Fifteen  to  five  for  a  starter,  and  comin* 
at  him  from  three  ways  to  once.  And  he  got  the  whole 
three  of  'em!  Do  you  know  what  that  means,  boy? 
But  shucks!  I'm  forgettin'  times  has  changed.  How 
they  been  usin'  you  down  here?" 

"I  am  sleep  in  the  hay  by  Dex." 

263 


Tang  of  Life 

"Uh-uh.  Let  that  rest.  Mebby  it's  a  good  thing, 
anyhow.  Got  any  money?" 

"No,  senor.  I  have  use  all." 

" Where  d'  you  eat?" 

"I  have  buy  the  can  and  the  crackers  at  the  store." 

"Can  and  crackers,  eh?  Bet  you  ain't  had  a  square 
meal  for  a  week.  But  we'll  fix  that.  Here,  go  'long 
and  buy  some  chuck  till  I  get  organized." 

"Gracias,  senor.  But  I  can  pray  better  when  I 
do  not  eat  so  much." 

"Good  Lord!  But,  that's  some  idee!  Well,  if 
wishin'  and  hopin'  and  such  is  pray  in',  I  reckon  Jim '11 
pull  through.  I  reckon  it's  up  to  the  missus  now." 

"Lorry  is  not  come?" 

"Nope.  Could  n't  get  to  him.  When  does  the  mail 
go  out  of  this  bone-hill?" 

"I  do  not  know.  To-morrow  or  perhaps  the  next 
day." 

"Uh-uh.  Well,  you  get  somethin'  to  eat,  and  then 
throw  a  saddle  on  Dex  and  I'll  give  you  a  couple  of 
letters  to  take  to  The  Junction.  And,  come  to  think, 
you  might  as  well  keep  right  on  fannin'  it  for  Stacey 
and  home.  They  can  use  you  over  to  the  ranch.  The 
missus  and  me '11  take  care  of  Senor  Jim." 

"I  take  the  letter,"  said  Ramon,  "but  I  am  come 
back.  I  am  with  the  Senor  Jim  where  he  goes." 

"Oh,  very  well,  amigo.  Might  as  well  give  a  duck 
a  bar  of  soap  and  ask  him  to  take  a  bath  as  to  tell  you 
to  leave  Jim.  Such  is  wastin'  talk." 


Chapter  XXIV 
The  Genial  Bud 

AND  just  as  soon  as  he  can  be  moved,  his 
wife  aims  to  take  him  over  to  Stacey." 
So  Bud  told  the  Marshal    of    Criswell, 
who,  for  want  of   better  accommodations,  had  his 
office  in  the  rear  of  the  general  store. 

The  marshal,  a  gaunt  individual  with  a  watery 
blue  eye  and  a  soiled  goatee,  shook  his  head.  "The 
law  is  the  law,"  he  stated  sententiously. 

"And  a  gun's  a  gun,"  said  Shoop.  "But  what 
evidence  you  got  that  Jim  Waring  killed  Bob  Brew- 
ster  and  his  brother  Tony?" 

"All  I  need,  pardner.  When  I  thought  Anc* 
Brewster  was  goin'  to  pass  over,  I  took  his  anti- 
mortim.  But  he's  livin'.  And  he  is  bound  over  f^ 
appear  ag'in'  Waring.  What  you  say  about  the  kiliur 
over  by  Stacey  ain't  got  nothin'  to  do  with  this  her*? 
case.  I  got  no  orders  to  hold  Andy  Brewster,  but 
I  'm  holdin'  him  for  evidence.  And  I  'm  holdin'  War- 
ing for  premeditated  contempt  and  shootin'  to  death 
of  said  Bob  Brewster  and  his  brother  Tony.  And  I 
got  said  gun  what  did  it." 

"So  you  pinched  Jim's  gun,  eh?  And  when  he 
could  n't  lift  a  finger  or  say  a  word  to  stop  you.  Do 
you  want  to  know  what  would  happen  if  you  was  to 

265 


Tang  of  Life 

try  to  get  a  holt  of  said  gun  if  Jim  Waring  was  on  his 
two  feet?  Well,  Jim  Waring  would  pull  said  trigger, 
and  Criswell  would  bury  said  city  marshal." 

"The  law  is  the  law.  This  town's  payin'  me  to  do 
my  duty,  and  I'm  goin'  to  do  it." 

"Speakin'  in  general,  how  much  do  you  owe  the 
town  so  far?" 

"Look-a-here!  You  can't  run  no  whizzer  like  that 
on  me.  I  've  heard  tell  of  you,  Mr.  Shoop.  No  dinky 
little  ole  forest  ranger  can  come  cantelopin'  round 
here  tellin'  me  my  business!" 

"Mebby  I'm  dinky,  and  mebby,  I'm  old,  but  your 
eyesight  wants  fixin'  if  you  callin'  me  little,  old  hoss. 
An'  I  ain't  tryin'  to  tell  you  your  business.  I  'm  tellin' 
you  mine,  which  is  that  Jim  Waring  goes  to  Stacey 
just  the  first  minute  he  can  put  his  foot  in  a  buck- 
board.  And  he's  goin'  peaceful.  I  got  a  gun  on  me 
that  says  so." 

"The  law  is  the  law.  I  can  run  you  in  for  packin' 
concealed  weapons,  Mr.  Shoop." 

"Run  me  in!"  chuckled  Shoop.  "Nope.  You'd 
sp'ile  the  door.  But  let  me  tell  you.  A  supervisor  is 
a  deputy  sheriff  —  and  that  goes  anywhere  they 's  a 
American  flag.  I  don't  see  none  here,  but  I  reckon 
Criswell  is  in  America.  What's  the  use  of  your  actin' 
like  a  goat  just  because  you  got  chin  whiskers?  I'm 
tellin'  you  Jim  Waring  done  a  good  job  when  he  beefed 
them  coyotes." 

The  marshal's  pale-blue  eyes  blinked  at  the  allu- 

266 


The  Genial  Bud 

sion  to  the  goat.  "Now,  don't  you  get  pussonel, 
neighbor.  The  law  is  the  law,  and  they  ain't  no  use 
you  talkin'." 

Bud's  lips  tightened.  The  marshal's  reiterated 
reference  to  the  law  was  becoming  irksome.  He 
would  be  decidedly  impersonal  henceforth. 

"I  seen  a  pair  of  walkin'  overalls  once,  hitched  to 
a  two-bit  shirt  with  a  chewin'-tobacco  tag  on  it.  All 
that  held  that  there  fella  together  was  his  suspenders. 
I  don't  recollec'  whether  he  just  had  goat  whiskers 
or  chewed  tobacco,  but  somebody  who  had  been 
liquorin'  up  told  him  he  looked  like  the  Emperor 
Maximilian.  And  you  know  what  happened  to 
Maxy." 

"That's  all  right,  neighbor.  But  mebby  when  I 
put  in  my  bill  for  board  of  said  prisoner  and  feed  for 
his  hoss  and  one  Mexican,  mebby  you'll  quit  talkin' 
so  much,  'less  you  got  friends  where  you  can  borrow 
money." 

"Your  bill  will  be  paid.  Don't  you  worry  about 
that.  What  I  want  to  know  is:  Does  Jim  Waring 
leave  town  peaceful,  or  have  I  got  to  hang  around 
here  till  he  gets  well  enough  to  travel,  and  then  show 
you?  I  got  somethin'  else  to  do  besides  set  on  a  cracker 
barrel  and  swap  lies  with  my  friends." 

"You  can  stay  or  you  can  go,  but  the  law  is  the 
law—" 

"And  a  goat  is  a  goat.  All  right,  hombre,  I'll 
stay." 

267 


Tang  of  Life 

"As  I  was  sayinY '  continued  the  marshal,  ignoring 
the  deepening  color  of  Shoop's  face,  "y°u  can  stay. 
You're  too  durned  fat  to  move  around  safe,  anyhow. 
You  might  bust." 

Shoop  smiled.  He  had  stirred  the  musty  marshal 
to  a  show  of  feeling.  The  marshal,  who  had  keyed 
himself  up  to  make  the  thrust,  was  disappointed. 
He  made  that  mistake,  common  to  his  kind,  of  im- 
agining that  he  could  continue  that  sort  of  thing  with 
impunity. 

"You  come  prancin'into  this  town  with  a  strange 
woman,  sayin'  that  she  is  the  wife  of  the  defendant. 
Can  you  tell  me  how  her  name  is  Adams  and  his'n 
is  Waring?" 

"I  can!"  And  with  a  motion  so  swift  that  the 
marshal  had  no  time  to  help  himself,  Bud  Shoop 
seized  the  other's  goatee  and  yanked  him  from  the 
cracker  barrel.  "I  got  a  job  for  you,"  said  Shoop, 
grinning  until  his  teeth  showed. 

And  without  further  argument  on  his  part,  he 
led  the  marshal  through  the  store  and  up  the  street 
to  his  own  house.  The  marshal  back-paddled  and 
struggled,  but  he  had  to  follow  his  chin. 

Mrs.  Adams  answered  Bud's  knock.  Bud  jerked 
the  marshal  to  his  knees. 

"Apologize  to  this  lady  —  quick!" 

"Why,  Mr.  Shoop!" 

"Yes,  it's  me,  Annie.  Talk  up,  you  pizen  lizard!'* 

"But,  Bud,  you're  hurting  him!" 

268 


The  Genial  Bud 

"Well,  I  did  n't  aim  to  feed  him  ice-cream.  Talk 
up,  you  Gila  monster  —  and  talk  quick!" 

"I  apologize,"  mumbled  the  marshal. 

Bud  released  him  and  wiped  his  hand  on  his 
trousers. 

"Sticky!"  he  muttered. 

The  marshal  shook  his  fist  at  Bud.  "  You  're  under 
arrest  for  disturbin'  the  peace.  You  're  under  arrest ! " 

"What  does  it  mean?"  queried  Mrs.  Adams. 

"Nothin'  what  he  ain't  swallowed,  Annie.  Gosh 
'mighty,  but  I  wasted  a  lot  of  steam  on  that  there 
walkin'  clothes-rack!  The  blamed  horn  toad  says 
he's  holdin'  Jim  for  shootin'  the  Brewsters." 

"But  he  can't,"  said  Mrs.  Adams.  "Wait  a  min- 
ute; I'll  be  right  out.  Sit  down,  Bud.  You  are  tired 
out  and  nervous." 

Bud  sat  down  heavily.  "Gosh!  I  never  come  so 
clost  to  pullin'  a  gun  in  my  life.  If  he  was  a  man,  I 
reckon  I'd  'a'  done  it.  What  makes  me  mad  is  that 
I  let  him  get  me  mad." 

When  Mrs.  Adams  came  out  to  the  porch  she  had 
a  vest  in  her  hand.  Inside  the  vest  was  pinned  the 
little,  round  badge  of  a  United  States  marshal.  Bud 
seized  the  vest,  and  without  waiting  to  listen  to  her 
he  plodded  down  the  street  and  marched  into  the  gen- 
eral store,  where  the  town  marshal  was  talking  to  a 
group  of  curious  natives. 

"Can  you  read?"  said  Bud,  and  without  waiting 
for  an  answer  shoved  the  little  silver  badge  under  the 

269 


Tang  of  Life 

marshal's  nose.  "The  law  is  the  law,"  said  Bud.  "And 
that  there  vest  belongs  to  Jim  Waring." 

Bud  had  regained  his  genial  smile.  He  was  too  full 
of  the  happy  discovery  to  remain  silent. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  said,  assuming  a  manner,  "did 
your  honorable  peace  officer  here  tell  you  what  he 
said  about  the  wife  of  the  man  who  is  layin'  wounded 
and  helpless  in  his  own  house?  And  did  your  honor- 
able peace  officer  tell  you-all  that  it  is  her  money  that 
is  payin'  for  the  board  and  doctorin'  of  Tony  Brew- 
ster,  likewise  layin'  wounded  and  helpless  in  your 
midst?  And  did  your  honorable  peace  officer  tell  you 
that  Jim  Waring  is  goin'  to  leave  comfortable  and 
peaceful  just  as  soon  as  the  A'mighty  and  the  doc '11 
turn  him  loose?  Well,  I  seen  he  was  talkin'  to  you, 
and  I  figured  he  might  'a'  been  tellin'  you  these 
things,  but  I  wa'n't  sure.  Was  you-all  thinkin*  of 
stoppin'  me?  Such  doin's!  Why,  when  I  was  a  kid  I 
used  to  ride  into  towns  like  this  frequent,  turn  'em 
bottom  side  up,  spank  'em,  and  send  'em  bawlin'  to 
their  —  to  their  city  marshal,  and  I  ain't  dead  yet. 
Now,  I  come  peaceful  and  payin'  my  way,  but  if 
they 's  any  one  here  got  any  objections  to  how  I  wear 
my  vest  or  eat  my  pie,  why,  he  can  just  oil  up  his 
objection,  load  her,  and  see  that  she  pulls  easy  and 
shoots  straight.  I  ain't  no  charity  organization,  but 
I  'm  handin'  you  some  first-class  life  insurance  free." 

That  afternoon  Buck  Hardy  arrived,  accompanied 
by  a  deputy.  Andy  Brewster  again  made  deposition 

270 


The  Genial  Bud 

that  without  cause  Waring  had  attacked  and  killed 
his  brothers.  Hardy  had  a  long  consultation  with 
Shoop,  and  later  notified  Brewster  that  he  was  under 
arrest  as  an  accomplice  in  the  murder  of  Pat  and  for 
aiding  the  murderer  to  escape.  While  circumstantial 
evidence  pointed  directly  toward  the  Brewsters,  who 
had  threatened  openly  from  time  to  time  to  "get" 
Pat,  there  was  valuable  evidence  missing  in  Waco, 
who,  it  was  almost  certain,  had  been  an  eye-witness 
of  the  tragedy.  Waco  had  been  traced  to  the  town  of 
Grant,  at  which  place  Hardy  and  his  men  had  lost 
the  trail.  The  demolished  buckboard  had  been  found 
by  the  roadside.  Hardy  had  tracked  the  automobile 
to  Grant. 

Shoop  suggested  that  Waco  might  have  taken  a 
freight  out  of  town.  Despite  Hardy's  argument  that 
Waco  had  nothing  to  fear  so  far  as  the  murder  was 
concerned,  Shoop  realized  that  the  tramp  had  been 
afraid  to  face  the  law  and  had  left  that  part  of  the 
country. 

Such  men  were  born  cowards,  irresolute,  weak, 
and  treacherous  even  to  their  own  infrequent  mo- 
ments of  indecision.  There  was  no  question  but  that 
WTaring  had  acted  within  the  law  in  killing  the 
Brewsters.  Bob  Brewster  had  fired  at  him  at  sight. 
But  the  fact  that  one  of  the  brothers  survived  to 
testify  against  Waring  opened  up  a  question  that 
would  have  to  be  answered  in  court.  Shoop  offered 
the  opinion  that  possibly  Andy  Brewster,  the  young- 

271 


Tang  of  Life 

est  of  the  brothers,  was  not  directly  implicated  in 
the  murder,  only  taking  sides  with  his  brother  Bob 
when  he  learned  that  he  was  a  fugitive.  In  such  a 
premise  it  was  not  unnatural  that  his  bitterness 
toward  Waring  should  take  the  angle  that  it  did. 
And  it  would  be  difficult  to  prove  that  Andy  Brew- 
ster  was  guilty  of  more  than  aiding  his  brother  to 
escape. 

The  sheriff  and  Shoop  talked  the  matter  over, 
with  the  result  that  Hardy  dispatched  a  telegram 
from  The  Junction  to  all  the  Southern  cities  to  keep 
a  sharp  watch  for  Waco. 

Next  morning  Shoop  left  for  Jason  with  Hardy 
and  his  deputy. 

Several  days  later  Waring  was  taken  to  The  Junc- 
tion by  Mrs.  Adams  and  Ramon,  where  Ramon  left 
them  waiting  for  the  east-bound.  The  Mexican  rode 
the  big  buckskin.  He  had  instructions  to  return  to 
the  ranch. 

Late  that  evening,  Waring  was  assisted  from  the 
train  to  the  hotel  at  Stacey.  He  was  given  Lorry's 
old  room.  It  would  be  many  weeks  before  he  would 
be  strong  enough  to  walk  again. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Waring  relinquished 
the  initiative.  His  wife  planned  for  the  future,  and 
Waring  only  asserted  himself  when  she  took  it  for 
granted  that  the  hotel  would  be  his  permanent  home. 

"There's  the  ranch,  Annie,"  he  told  her.  "I  can't 
give  that  up." 

272 


The  Genial  Bud 

"And  you  can't  go  back  there  till  I  let  you,"  she 
asserted,  smiling. 

"I'll  get  Lorry  to  talk  to  you  about  that.  I'm 
thinking  of  making  him  an  offer  of  partnership.  He 
may  want  to  set  up  for  himself  some  day.  I  married 
young." 

"I'd  like  to  see  the  girl  that's  good  enough  for  my 
Lorry." 

Waring  smiled.  "Or  good  enough  to  call  you 
'mother.'  " 

"Jim,  you're  trying  to  plague  me." 

"But  you  will  some  day.  There's  always  some 
girl.  And  Lorry  is  a  pretty  live  boy.  He  is  n't  going 
to  ride  a  lone  trail  forever." 

Mrs.  Adams  affected  an  indifference  that  she  by 
no  means  felt. 

"You're  a  lot  better  to-day,  Jim." 

"And  that's  all  your  fault,  Annie." 

She  left  the  room,  closing  the  door  slowly.  In  her 
own  room  at  the  end  of  the  hall,  she  glanced  at  her- 
self in  the  glass.  A  rosy  face  and  dark-brown  eyes 
smiled  back  at  her. 

But  there  were  many  things  to  attend  to  down- 
stairs. She  had  been  away  more  than  a  week.  And 
there  was  evidence  of  her  absence  in  every  room  in 
the  place. 


Chapter  XXV 

The  Little  Fires 

WITH  the  coming  of  winter  the  Blue 
Mesa  reclaimed  its  primordial  solitude. 
Mount  Baldy's  smooth,  glittering  round- 
ness topped  a  world  that  swept  down  in  long  waves 
of  dark  blue  frosted  with  silver;  the  serried  minarets 
of  spruce  and  pine  bulked  close  and  sprinkled  with 
snow.  Blanketed  in  white,  the  upland  mesas  lay 
like  great,  tideless  lakes,  silent  and  desolate  from 
green-edged  shore  to  shore.  The  shadowy  caverns 
of  the  timberlands,  touched  here  and  there  with  a 
ray  of  sunlight,  thrilled  to  the  creeping  fingers  of  the 
cold.  Tough  fibers  of  the  stiff-ranked  pines  parted 
with  a  crackling  groan,  as  though  unable  to  bear 
silently  the  reiterant  stabbing  of  the  frost  needles. 
The  frozen  gum  of  the  black  spruce  glowed  like 
frosted  topaz.  The  naked  whips  of  the  quaking  asp 
were  brittle  traceries  against  the  hard  blue  of  the 
sky. 

Below  the  rounded  shoulders  of  the  peaks  ran  an 
incessant  whispering  as  thin  swirls  of  powdered 
snow  spun  down  the  wind  and  sifted  through  the 
moving  branches  below. 

The  tawny  lynx  and  the  mist-gray  mountain  lion 
hunted  along  snow-banked  ranger  trails.  The  blue 

274 


The  Little  Fires 

grouse  sat  stiff  and  close  to  the  tree-trunk,  while 
gray  squirrels  with  quaintly  tufted  ears  peered  curi- 
ously at  sinuous  forms  that  nosed  from  side  to  side 
of  the  hidden*  trail  below. 

The  two  cabins  of  the  Blue  Mesa,  hooded  in 
white,  thrust  their  lean  stovepipes  skyward  through 
two  feet  of  snow.  The  corrals  were  shallow  fortifica- 
tions, banked  breast-high.  The  silence  seemed  not 
the  silence  of  slumber,  but  that  of  a  tense  waiting, 
as  though  the  whole  winter  world  yearned  for  the 
warmth  of  spring. 

No  creak  of  saddle  or  plod  of  hoof  broke  the  bleak 
stillness,  save  when  some  wandering  Apache  hunted 
the  wild  turkey  or  the  deer,  knowing  that  winter 
had  locked  the  trails  to  his  ancient  heritage;  that 
the  white  man's  law  of  boundaries  was  void  until 
the  snows  were  thin  upon  the  highest  peaks. 

Thirty  miles  north  of  this  white  isolation  the  low 
country  glowed  in  a  sun  that  made  golden  the  far 
buttes  and  sparkled  on  the  clay-red  waters  of  the 
Little  Colorado.  Four  thousand  feet  below  the  hills 
cattle  drifted  across  the  open  lands. 

Across  the  ranges,  to  the  south,  the  barren  sands 
lay  shimmering  in  a  blur  of  summer  heat  waves;  the 
winter  desert,  beautiful  in  its  golden  lights  and  pur- 
ple, changing  shadows.  And  in  that  Southern  desert, 
where  the  old  Apache  Trail  melts  into  the  made 
roads  of  ranchland  and  town,  Bronson  toiled  at  his 
writing.  And  Dorothy,  less  slender,  more  sprightly, 

275 


Tang  of  Life 

growing  stronger  in  the  clean,  clear  air  and  the  sun, 
dreamed  of  her  "ranger  man"  and  the  blue  hills  of 
her  autumn  wonderland.  With  the  warmth  of  sum- 
mer around  her,  the  lizards  on  the  rocks,  and  the 
chaparral  still  green,  she  could  hardly  realize  that  the 
Blue  Mesa  could  be  desolate,  white,  and  cold.  As 
yet  she  had  not  lived  long  enough  in  the  desert  to 
love  it  as  she  loved  the  wooded  hills,  where  to  her 
each  tree  was  a  companion  and  each  whisper  of  the 
wind  a  song. 

She  often  wondered  what  Lorry  was  doing,  and 
whether  Bondsman  would  come  to  visit  her  when 
they  returned  to  their  cabin  on  the  mesa.  She  often 
recalled,  with  a  kind  of  happy  wonderment,  Bonds- 
man's singular  visit  and  how  he  had  left  suddenly 
one  morning,  heedless  of  her  coaxing.  The  big  Aire- 
dale had  appeared  in  Jason  the  day  after  Bud  Shoop 
had  returned  from  Criswell.  That  Bondsman  should 
know,  miles  from*  the  town,  that  his  master  had  re- 
turned was  a  mystery  to  her.  She  had  read  of  such 
happenings;  her  father  had  written  of  them.  But  to 
know  them  for  the  very  truth!  That  was,  indeed, 
the  magic,  and  her  mountains  were  towering  cita- 
dels of  the  true  Romance. 

Long  before  Bronson  ventured  to  return  to  his 
mountain  camp,  Lorry  was  riding  the  hill  trails 
again  as  spring  loosened  the  upland  snows  and  filled 
the  canons  and  arroyos  with  a  red  turbulence  of 
waters  bearing  driftwood  and  dead  leaves.  With  a 

276 


The  Little  Fires 

companion  ranger  he  mended  trail  and  rode  along 
the  telephone  lines,  searching  for  sagging  wires; 
made  notes  of  fresh  down  timber  and  the  effect  of 
the  snow-fed  torrents  on  the  major  trails. 

Each  day  the  air  grew  warmer.  Tiny  green  shoots 
appeared  in  the  rusty  tangle  of  last  season's  mesa 
grasses.  Imperceptibly  the  dull-hued  mesas  became 
fresh  carpeted  with  green  across  which  the  wind 
bore  a  subtly  soft  fragrance  of  sun-warmed  spruce 
and  pine. 

To  Lorry  the  coming  of  the  Bronsons  was  like  the 
return  of  old  friends.  Although  he  had  known  them 
but  a  short  summer  season,  isolation  had  brought  them 
all  close  together.  Their  reunion  was  celebrated  with 
an  old-fashioned  dinner  of  roast  beef  and  potatoes, 
hot  biscuit  and  honey,  an  apple  pie  that  would  have 
made  a  New  England  farmer  dream  of  his  ancestors, 
and  the  inevitable  coffee  of  the  high  country. 

And  Dorothy  had  so  much  to  tell  him  of  the  won- 
derful winter  desert;  the  old  Mexican  who  looked 
after  their  horses,  and  his  wife  who  cooked  for  them. 
Of  sunshine  and  sandstorms,  the  ruins  of  ancient 
pueblos  in  which  they  discovered  fragments  of  pot- 
tery, arrowheads,  beads,  and  trinkets,  of  the  lean, 
bronzed  cowboys  of  the  South,  of  the  cattle  and 
sheep,  until  in  her  enthusiasm  she  forgot  that  Lorry 
had  always  known  of  these  things.  And  Lorry, 
gravely  attentive,  listened  without  interrupting  her 
until  she  asked  why  he  was  so  silent. 

277 


Tang  of  Life 

"Because  I'm  right  happy,  miss,  to  see  you  lookin* 
so  spry  and  pretty.  I'm  thinkin'  Arizona  has  been 
kind  of  a  heaven  for  you." 

"And  you?"  she  queried,  laughing. 

"Well,  it  wasn't  the  heat  that  would  make  me  call 
it  what  it  was  up  here  last  winter.  I  rode  up  once 
while  you  was  gone.  Gray  Leg  could  just  make  it  to 
the  cabin.  It  was  n't  so  bad  in  the  timber.  But  comin' 
across  the  mesa  the  cinchas  sure  scraped  snow." 

"Right  here  on  our  mesa?" 

"Right  here,  miss.  From  the  edge  of  the  timber 
over  there  to  this  side  it  was  four  feet  deep  on  the 
level." 

"And  now,"  she  said,  gesturing  toward  the  wav- 
ering grasses.  "But  why  did  you  risk  it?" 

Lorry  laughed.  He  had  not  considered  it  a  risk. 
"You  remember  that  book  you  lent  me.  Well,  I  left 
it  in  my  cabin.  There  was  one  piece  that  kep'  both- 
erin'  me.  I  could  n't  recollect  the  last  part  about 
those  'Little  Fires.'  I  was  plumb  worried  tryin'  to 
remember  them  verses.  When  I  got  it,  I  sure  learned 
that  piece  from  the  jump  to  the  finish." 

"The 'Little  Fires'?  I 'm  glad  you  like  it.  I  do. 

" '  From  East  to  West  they  're  burning  in  tower  and  forge 

and  home, 

And  on  beyond  the  outlands,  across  the  ocean  foam; 
On  mountain  crest  and  mesa,  on  land  and  sea  and  height, 
The  little  fires  along  the  trail  that  twinkle  down  the  night/ 

"And  about  the  sheep-herder;  do  you  remember 
how  — 

278 


The  Little  Fires 

" '  The  Andalusian  herder  rolls  a  smoke  and  points  the  way, 
As  he  murmurs,  "  Caliente,"  "  San  Clemente,"  "  Santa  Fe," 
Till  the  very  names  are  music,  waking  memoried  desires, 
And  we  turn  and  foot  it  down  the  trail  to  find  the  little  fires. 
Adventuring!  Adventuring!  And,  oh,  the  sights  to  see! 
And  little  fires  along  the  trail  that  wink  at  you  and  me/  " 

"That's  it!  But  I  could  n't  say  it  like  that.   But 
I  know  some  of  them  little  fires." 

"We  must  make  one  some  day.  Won't  it  be  fun!" 
"It  sure  is  when  a  fella  ain't  hustlin'  to  get  grub. 
That  poem  sounds  better  after  grub,  at  night,  when 
the  stars  are  shinin'   and  the  horses  grazin'  and 
mebby  the  pack-horse  bell  jinglin'  'way  off  some- 
where. Then  one  of  them  little  fires  is  sure  friendly.  " 
"Have  you  been  reading  this  winter?" 
"Oh,  some.    Mostly  forestry  and  about  the  war. 
Bud  was  tellin'  me  to  read  up  on  forestry.    He's 
goin'  to  put  me  over  west  —  and  a  bigger  job  this 


summer." 


"You  mean  —  to  stay?" 
"About  as  much  as  I  stay  anywhere." 
Dorothy  pouted.  She  had  thought  that  the  Blue 
Mesa  and  the  timberlands  were  more  beautiful  than 
ever  that  spring,  but  to  think  that  the  neighboring 
cabin  would  be  vacant  all  summer!  No  cheery 
whistling  and  no  wood  smoke  curling  from  the  chim- 
ney and  no  blithe  voice  talking  to  the  ponies.  No 
jolly  "  Good-mornin',  miss,  and  the  day  is  sure 
startin'  out  proud  to  see  you."  Well,  Dorothy  had 
considered  Mr.  Shoop  a  friend.  She  would  have  a 

279 


Tang  of  Life 

very  serious  talk  with  Mr.  Shoop  when  she  saw 
him. 

She  had  read  of  Waring's  fight  in  the  desert  and 
of  his  slow  recovery,  and  that  Waring  was  Lorry's 
father;  matters  that  she  could  not  speak  of  to  Lorry, 
but  the  knowledge  of  them  lent  a  kind  of  romance 
to  her  ranger  man.  At  times  she  studied  Lorry,  en- 
deavoring to  find  in  him  some  trace  of  his  father's 
qualities.  She  had  not  met  Waring,  but  she  imag- 
ined much  from  what  she  had  heard  and  read.  And 
could  Lorry,  who  had  such  kind  gray  eyes  and  such 
a  pleasant  face,  deliberately  go  out  and  kill  men  as 
his  father  had  done?  Why  should  men  kill  each 
other?  The  world  was  so  beautiful,  and  there  was 
so  much  to  live  for. 

Although  the  trail  across  the  great  forest  terraces 
below  was  open  clear  up  to  the  Blue  Mesa,  the  trails 
on  the  northern  side  of  the  range  were  still  impas- 
sable. The  lookout  man  would  not  occupy  his  lonely 
cabin  on  Mount  Baldy  for  several  weeks  to  come, 
and  Lorry's  work  kept  him  within  a  moderate  radius 
of  the  home  camp. 

Several  times  Dorothy  and  her  father  rode  with 
Lorry,  spending  the  day  searching  for  new  vistas 
while  he  mended  trail  or  repaired  the  telephone  line 
that  ran  from  Mount  Baldy  to  the  main  office.  Fre- 
quently they  would  have  their  evening  meal  in 
Bronson's  camp,  after  which  Lorry  always  asked 
them  to  his  cabin,  where  Dorothy  would  play  for 

280 


The  Little  Fires 

them  while  they  smoked  contentedly  in  front  of  the 
log  fire.  To  Dorothy  it  seemed  that  they  had  always 
lived  in  a  cabin  on  the  Blue  Mesa  and  that  Lorry 
had  always  been  their  neighbor,  whom  it  was  a  joy 
to  tease  because  he  never  showed  impatience,  and 
whose  attitude  toward  her  was  that  of  a  brother. 

And  without  realizing  it,  Lorry  grew  to  love  the 
sprightly,  slender  Dorothy  with  a  wholesome,  boy- 
ish affection.  When  she  was  well,  he  was  happy. 
When  she  became  over-tired,  and  was  obliged  to 
Stay  in  her  room,  he  was  miserable,  blaming  him- 
self for  suggesting  some  expedition  that  had  been 
too  much  for  her  strength,  so  often  buoyed  above 
its  natural  level  by  enthusiasm.  At  such  times  he 
would  blame  himself  roundly.  And  if  there  seemed 
no  cause  for.  her  depression,  he  warred  silently  with 
the  power  that  stooped  to  harm  so  frail  a  creature. 
"His  own  physical  freedom  knew  no  such  check.  He 
could  not  quite  understand  sickness,  save  when  it 
came  through  some  obvious  physical  injury. 

Bronsonwas  glad  that  there  was  a  Lorry;  both  as 
a  companion  to  himself  and  as  a  tower  of  strength 
to  Dorothy.  Her  depression  vanished  in  the  young 
ranger's  presence.  It  was  a  case  of  the  thoroughbred 
endeavoring  to  live  up  to  the  thoroughbred  standard. 
And  Bronson  considered  anything  thoroughbred 
that  was  true  to  type.  Yet  the  writer  had  known 
men  physically  inconsequent  who  possessed  a  fine 
strain  of  courage,  loyalty,  honor.  The  shell  might 

281 


Tang  of  Life 

be  misshapen,  malformed,  and  yet  the  spirit  burn 
high  and  clear.  And  Bronson  reasoned  that  there 
was  a  divinity  of  blood,  despite  the  patents  of  democ- 
racy. 

Bronson  found  that  he  had  to  go  to  Jason  for 
supplies.  Dorothy  asked  to  go  with  him.  Bronson 
hesitated.  It  was  a  long  ride,  although  Dorothy  had 
made  it  upon  occasion.  She  teased  prettily.  Lorry 
was  away.  She  was  n't  afraid  to  stay  alone,  but 
she  would  be  lonesome.  If  she  kissed  him  three 
times,  one  right  on  top  of  the  other,  would  he  let  her 
come?  Bronson  gave  in  to  this  argument.  They 
would  ride  slowly,  and  stay  a  day  longer  in  Jason  to 
rest. 

When  they  arrived  at  Jason,  Dorothy  immediately 
went  to  bed.  She  wanted  to  be  at  her  best  on  the 
following  day.  She  was  going  to  talk  with  Mr. 
Shoop.  It  was  a  very  serious  matter. 

And  next  morning  she  excused  herself  while  her 
father  bought  supplies.  She  called  at  the  super- 
visor's office.  Bud  Shoop  beamed.  She  was  so  alert, 
so  vivacious,  and  so  charming  in  her  quick  slender- 
ness.  The  genial  Bud  placed  a  chair  for  her  with 
grandiloquent  courtesy. 

"I'm  going  to  ask  a  terrible  favor,"  she  began, 
crossing  her  legs  and  clasping  her  knee. 

"I'm  pow'ful  scared,"  said  Bud. 

"I  don't  want  favors  that  way.  I  want  you  to 
like  me,  and  then  I  will  tell  you." 

282 


The  Little  Fires 

"My  goodness,  missy!  Like  you!  Who  said  I 
didn't?" 

"No  one.  But  you  have  ordered  Lorry  Adams  to 
close  up  his  camp  and  go  over  to  work  right  near  the 
Apache  Reservation." 

"I  sure  did." 

"Well,  Mr.  Shoop,  I  don't  like  Apaches." 

"You  got  comp'ny,  missy.  But  what's  that  got 
to  do  with  Lorry?" 

"Oh,  I  suppose  he  doesn't  care.  But  what  do 
you  think  his  mother  would  say  to  you  if  he  —  well, 
if  he  got  scalped?" 

A  slow  grin  spread  across  Bud's  broad  face.  Doro- 
thy looked  solemn  disapproval.  "I  can't  help  it," 
he  said  as  he  shook  all  over.  Two  tears  welled  in 
the  corner  of  his  eyes  and  trickled  down  his  cheeks. 
"I  can't  help  it,  missy.  I  ain't  laughin'  at  you.  But 
Lorry  gettin'  scalped!  Why,  here  you  been  livin' 
up  here,  not  five  miles  from  the  Apache  line,  and  I 
ain't  heard  you  tell  of  bein'  scared  of  Injuns.  And 
you  ain't  no  bigger  than  a  minute  at  that." 

"That's  just  it!  Suppose  the  Apaches  did  come 
over  the  line?  What  could  we  do  if  Lorry  were  gone?  " 

"Well,  you  might  repo't  their  trespassin'  to  me. 
And  I  reckon  your  daddy  might  have  somethin'  to 
say  to  'em.  He's  been  around  some." 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so.  But  there  is  a  lot  of  work  to  do 
in  Lorry's  district,  I  noticed,  coming  down.  The  trails 
are  in  very  bad  condition." 


Tang  of  Life 

"I  know  it.  But  he's  worth  more  to  the  Service 
doin'  bigger  work.  I  got  a  young  college  man  wished 
onto  me  that  can  mend  trails." 

"Will  he  live  at  Lorry's  cabin?" 

"No.  He'll  head  in  from  here.  I  ain't  givin'  the 
use  of  my  cabin  and  my  piano  to  everybody." 

Dorothy's  eyes  twinkled.  "If  Lorry  were  away 
some  one  might  steal  your  piano." 

"Now,  see  here,  missy;  you're  joshin*  your  Uncle 
Bud.  Do  you  know  that  you're  tryin'  to  bribe  a 
Gov'ment  officer?  That  means  a  pow'ful  big  penalty 
if  I  was  to  repo't  to  Washington." 

Dorothy  wrinkled  her  nose.  "I  don't  care  if  you 
do!  You'd  get  what-for,  too." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,  missy.  Let's  ask  Bondsman 
about  this  here  hocus.  Are  you  willin'  to  stand  by 
what  he  says?" 

"Oh,  that's  not  fair!  He's  your  dog." 

"But  he's  plumb  square  in  his  jedgments,  missy. 
Now,  I'll  tell  you.  We'll  call  him  in  and  say  nothin'. 
Then  you  ask  him  if  he  thinks  I  ought  to  put  Lorry 
Adams  over  west  or  leave  him  to  my  camp  this  sum- 
mer. Now,  if  Bondsman  wiggles  that  stub  tail  of  his, 
it  means,  'yes-'  If  he  don't  wiggle  his  tail,  he  says, 
'no,'  — huh?" 

"Of  course  he'll  wiggle  his  tail.  He  always  does 
when  I  talk  to  him." 

"Then  suppose  I  do  the  talkin'?" 

"Oh,  you  can  make  him  do  just  as  you  wish.   But 

284 


The  Little  Fires 

all  right,  Mr.  Shoop.  And  you  will  really  let  Bonds- 
man decide?" 

"'T  ain't  accordin'  to  rules,  but  seein'  it's  you  — " 

Bud  called  to  the  big  Airedale.  Bondsman  trotted 
in,  nosed  Dorothy's  hand,  and  looked  up  at  his 
master. 

"Come  'ere!"  commanded  Shoop  brusquely. 
"Stand  right  there!  Now,  quit  tryin*  to  guess  what's 
goin'  on  and  listen  to  the  boss.  Accordin'  to  your  jedg- 
ment,  which  is  plumb  solid,  do  I  put  Lorry  to  work 
over  on  the  line  this  summer?  " 

Bondsman  cocked  his  ears,  blinked,  and  a  slight 
quiver  began  at  his  shoulders,  which  would  undoubt- 
edly accentuate  to  the  affirmative  when  it  reached* 
his  tail. 

"Rats!"  cried  Dorothy. 

The  Airedale  grew  rigid,  and  his  spike  of  a  tail 
cocked  up  straight  and  stiff. 

Bud  Shoop  waved  his  hands  helplessly.  "I  might 
'a'  knowed  it!  A  lady  can  always  get  a  man  steppin' 
on  his  own  foot  when  he  tries  to  walk  around  a  argu- 
ment with  her.  You  done  bribed  me  and  corrupted 
Bondsman.  But  I'm  stayin'  right  by  what  I  said." 

Dorothy  jumped  up  and  took  Bud's  big  hand  in 
her  slender  ones.  "You're  just  lovely  to  us!"  And 
her  brown  eyes  glowed  softly. 

Bud  coughed.  His  shirt-collar  seemed  tight.  He 
tugged  at  it,  and  coughed  again. 

"Missy,"  he  said,  leaning  forward  and  patting  her 

285 


Tang  of  Life 

hand,  —  "missy,  I  would  send  Lorry  plumb  to  —  to 
—  Phoenix  and  tell  the  Service  to  go  find  him,  just  to 
see  them  brown  eyes  of  yours  lookin'  at  me  like  that. 
But  don't  you  say  nothin'  about  this  here  committee 
meetin'  to  nobody.  I  reckon  you  played  a  trick  on  me 
for  teasin'  you.  So  you  think  Lorry  is  a  right  smart 
hombre,  eh?" 

"Oh,"  indifferently,  "he's  rather  nice  at  times. 
He's  company  for  father." 

"Then  I  reckon  you  set  a  whole  lot  of  store  by  your 
daddy.  Now,  I  wonder  if  I  was  a  young,  bow-legged 
cow-puncher  with  kind  of  curly  hair  and  lookin' 
fierce  and  noble,  and  they  was  a  gal  whose  daddy  was 
plumb  lonesome  for  company,  and  Iwas  to  get  notice 
from  the  boss  that  I  was  to  vamose  the  diggin's  and 
go  to  work,  —  now,  I  wonder  who  'd  ride  twenty  miles 
of  trail  to  talk  up  for  me?" 

"Why,  I  would!" 

"You  got  everything  off  of  me  but  my  watch," 
laughed  Bud.  "I  reckon  you'll  let  me  keep  that?" 

"Is  it  a  good  watch?"  she  asked,  and  her  eyes 
sparkled  with  a  great  idea. 

"ToFable.  Cost  a  dollar.  I  lost  my  old  watch  in 
Criswell.  I  reckon  the  city  marshal  got  it  when  I 
wa'n't  lookin'." 

"Well,  you  may  keep  it  —  for  a  while  yet.  When 
are  you  coming  up  to  visit  us?" 

"Just  as  soon  as  I  can,  missy.  Here's  your  daddy. 
I  want  to  talk  to  him  a  minute." 

286 


The  Little  Fires 

Three  weeks  later,  when  the  wheels  of  the  local 
stage  were  beginning  to  throw  a  fine  dust,  instead  of 
mud,  as  they  whirred  from  St.  Johns  to  Jason,  Bud 
Shoop  received  a  tiny  flat  package  addressed  in  an 
unfamiliar  hand.  He  laid  it  aside  until  he  had  read 
the  mail.  Then  he  opened  it.  In  a  nest  of  cotton 
batting  gleamed  a  plain  gold  watch.  A  thin  watch, 
reflecting  something  aristocratic  in  its  well-propor- 
tioned simplicity.  As  he  examined  it  his  genial  face 
expressed  a  sort  of  childish  wonderment.  There  was 
no  card  to  show  from  where  it  had  come.  He  opened 
the  back  of  the  case,  and  read  a  brief  inscription. 

"And  the  little  lady  would  be  sendin'  this  to  me! 
And  it's  that  slim  and  smooth;  nothin'  fancy,  but  a 
reg'lar  thoroughbred,  just  like  her." 

He  laid  the  watch  carefully  on  his  desk,  and  sat 
for  a  while  gazing  out  of  the  window.  It  was  the  first 
time  in  his  life  that  a  woman  had  made  him  a  present. 
Turning  to  replace  the  watch  in  the  box,  he  saw 
something  glitter  in  the  cotton.  He  pulled  out  a  layer 
of  batting,  and  discovered  a  plain  gold  chain  of  strong, 
serviceable  pattern. 

That  afternoon,  as  Bud  came  from  luncheon  at  the 
hotel,  a  townsman  accosted  him  in  the  street.  During 
their  chat  the  townsman  commented  upon  the  watch- 
chain.  Bud  drew  the  watch  from  his  pocket  and 
exhibited  it  proudly. 

"Just  a  little  present  from  a  lady  friend.  And  her 
name  is  inside  the  cover,  along  with  mine." 

287 


Tang  of  Life 

"A  lady  friend,  eh?  Now,  I  thought  it  was  politics 

mebby?" 

"Nope.  Strictly  pussonel." 

"Well,  Bud,  you  want  to  watch  out." 

"If  you're  meanin'  that  for  a  joke,"  retorted  Bud, 

"it's  that  kind  of  a  joke  what's  foundered  in  its  front 

laigs  and  can't  do  nothin'  but  walk  around  itself. 

I  got  the  same  almanac  over  to  my  office." 


Chapter  XXVI 

Idle  Noon 

occasional  raw  winds  of  spring  softened 
to  the  warm  calm  of  summer.  The  horses 

JL  had  shed  their  winter  coats,  and  grew  sleek 
and  fat  on  the  lush  grasses  of  the  mesa.  The  mesa 
stream  cleared  from  a  ropy  red  to  a  sparkling  thread 
of  silver  banked  with  vivid  green.  If  infrequent  thun- 
derstorms left  a  haze  in  the  canons,  it  soon  vanished 
in  the  light  air. 

Bronson  found  it  difficult  to  keep  Dorothy  from 
over-exerting  herself.  They  arose  at  daybreak  and 
went  to  bed  at  dusk,  save  when  Lorry  came  for  an 
after-dinner  chat  or  when  he  prevailed  upon  Dorothy 
to  play  for  them  in  his  cabin.  On  such  occasions  she 
would  entertain  them  with  old  melodies  played  softly 
as  they  smoked  and  listened,  the  lamp  unlighted  and 
the  door  wide  open  to  the  stars. 

One  evening,  when  Dorothy  had  ceased  to  play 
for  them,  Lorry  mentioned  that  he  was  to  leave  on 
the  following  day  for  an  indefinite  time.  There  had 
been  some  trouble  about  a  new  outfit  that  was  grazing 
cattle  far  to  the  south.  Shoop  had  already  sent  word 
to  the  foreman,  who  had  ignored  the  message.  Lorry 
had  been  deputized  to  see  the  man  and  have  an 

289 


Tang  of  Life 

understanding  with  him.  The  complaint  had  been 
brought  to  Shoop  by  one  of  the  Apache  police  that 
some  cowboys  had  been  grazing  stock  and  killing 
game  on  the  Indian  reservation. 

Dorothy  realized  that  Lorry  might  be  away  for 
some  time.  She  would  miss  him.  And  that  night  she 
asked  her  father  if  she  might  not  invite  a  girl  friend 
up  for  the  summer.  They  were  established.  And 
Dorothy  was  much  stronger  and  able  to  attend  to  the 
housekeeping.  Bronson  was  quite  willing.  He  realized 
that  he  was  busy  most  of  the  time,  writing.  He  was 
not  much  of  a  companion  except  at  the  table.  So 
Dorothy  wrote  to  her  friend,  who  was  in  Los  Angeles 
and  had  already  planned  to  drive  East  when  the  roads 
became  passable. 

Lorry  was  roping  the  packs  next  morning  when 
Dorothy  appeared  in  her  new  silver-gray  corduroy 
riding-habit  —  a  surprise  that  she  had  kept  for  an 
occasion.  She  was  proud  of  the  well-tailored  coat 
and  breeches,  the  snug-fitting  black  boots,  and  the 
small,  new  Stetson.  Her  gray  silk  waist  was  bright- 
ened by  a  narrow  four-in-hand  of  rich  blue,  and  her 
tiny  gauntlets  of  soft  gray  buckskin  were  stitched 
with  blue  silk. 

She  looked  like  some  slender,  young  exquisite  who 
had  stepped  from  the  stage  of  an  old  play  as  she  stood 
smoothing  the  fingers  of  her  gloves  and  smiling  across 
at  Lorry.  He  said  nothing,  but  stared  at  her.  She 
was  disappointed.  She  wanted  him  to  tell  her  that 

290 


Idle  Noon 

he  liked  her  new  things,  she  had  spent  so  much  time 
and  thought  on  them.  But  there  he  stood,  the  pack- 
rope  slack  in  his  hand,  staring  stupidly. 
She  nodded,  and  waved  her  hand. 
"It's  me,"  she  called.  "  Good-morning  I" 
Lorry  managed  to  stammer  a  greeting.  He  felt  as 
though  she  were  some  strange  person  that  looked  like 
Dorothy,  but  like  a  new  Dorothy  of  such  exquisite 
attitude  and  grace  and  so  altogether  charming  that 
he  could  do  nothing  but  wonder  how  the  transforma- 
tion had  come  about.  He  had  always  thought  her 
pretty.  But  now  she  was  more  than  that.  She  was 
alluring;  she  was  the  girl  he  loved  from  the  brim  of 
her  gray  Stetson  to  the  toe  of  her  tiny  boot. 
"Would  you  catch  my  pony  for  me?" 
Lorry  flushed.  Of  course  she  wanted  Chinook.  He 
swung  up  on  Gray  Leg  and  spurred  across  the  mesa. 
His  heart  was  pounding  hard.  He  rode  with  a  dash 
and  a  swing  as  he  rounded  up  the  ponies.  As  he 
caught  up  her  horse  he  happened  to  think  of  his  own 
faded  shirt  and  overalls.  He  was  wearing  the  essen- 
tially proper  clothing  for  his  work.  For  the  first  time 
he  realized  the  potency  of  carefully  chosen  attire. 
As  he  rode  back  with  the  pastured  pony  trailing  be- 
hind him,  he  felt  peculiarly  ashamed  of  himself  for 
feeling  ashamed  of  his  clothing.  Silently  he  saddled 
Chinook,  accepted  her  thanks  silently,  and  strode  to 
his  cabin.  When  he  reappeared  he  was  wearing  a 
new  shirt,  his  blue  silk  bandanna,  and  his  silver- 

291 


Tang  of  Life 

studded  chaps.  He  would  cache  those  chaps  at  his 
first  camp  out,  and  get  them  when  he  returned. 

Bronson  came  to  the  doorway. 

Dorothy  put  her  finger  to  her  lips.  "Lorry  is 
stunned,  I  think.  Do  I  look  as  spiff  as  all  that?" 

"Like  a  slim  young  cavalier;  very  dashing  and 
wonderful,  Peter  Pan." 

"Not  a  bit  like  Dorothy?" 

"Well,  the  least  bit;  but  more  like  Peter  Pan." 

"I  was  getting  tired  of  being  just  Dorothy.  That 
was  all  very  well  when  I  was  n't  able  to  ride  and  camp 
and  do  all  sorts  of  adventures. 

"And  that  isn't  all,"  she  continued.  "I  weigh 
twelve  pounds  more  than  I  did  last  summer.  Mr. 
Shoop  weighed  me  on  the  store  scales.  I  wanted  to 
weigh  him.  He  made  an  awful  pun,  but  he  would  n't 
budge." 

Bronson  nodded.  "I  would  n't  ride  farther  than 
the  Big  Spring,  Peter.  It's  getting  hot  now." 

"All  right,  daddy.  I  wish  that  horrid  old  story 
was  finished.  You  never  ride  with  me." 

"You'll  have  some  one  to  ride  with  you  when  Alice 


comes." 


"Yes;  but  Alice  is  only  a  girl." 

Bronson  laughed,  and  she  scolded  him  with  her 
eyes.  Just  then  Lorry  appeared. 

Bronson  stooped  and  kissed  her.  "And  don't  ride 
too  far,"  he  cautioned. 

Lorry  drove  the  pack-animals  toward  Bronson's 

292 


Idle  Noon 

cabin.  He  dismounted  to  tighten  the  cinch  on 
Chinook's  saddle. 

The  little  cavalcade  moved  out  across  the  mesa. 
Dorothy  rode  behind  the  pack-animals,  who  knew 
their  work  too  well  to  need  a  lead-rope.  It  was  her 
adventure.  At  the  Big  Spring,  she  would  graciously 
allow  Lorry  to  take  charge  of  the  expedition. 

Lorry,  riding  behind  her,  turned  as  they  entered 
the  forest,  and  waved  farewell  to  Bronson. 

To  ride  the  high  trails  of  the  Arizona  hills  is  in 
itself  an  unadulterated  joy.  To  ride  these  wooded 
uplands,  eight  thousand  feet  above  the  world,  with 
a  sprightly  Peter  Pan  clad  in  silver-gray  corduroys 
and  chatting  happily,  is  an  enchantment.  In  such 
companionship,  when  the  morning  sunlight  dapples 
the  dun  forest  carpet  with  pools  of  gold,  when  vista 
after  vista  unfolds  beneath  the  high  arches  of  the 
rusty-brown  giants  of  the  woodlands;  when  some- 
where above  there  is  the  open  sky  and  the  marching 
sun,  the  twilight  underworld  of  the  green-roofed  cav- 
erns is  a  magic  land. 

The  ponies  plodded  slowly  upward,  to  turn  and 
plod  up  the  next  angle  of  the  trail,  without  loitering 
and  without  haste.  When  Dorothy  checked  her  pony 
to  gaze  at  some  new  vista,  the  pack-animals  rested, 
waiting  for  the  word  to  go  on  again.  Lorry,  awakened 
to  a  new  charm  in  Dorothy,  rode  in  a  silence  that 
needed  no  interpreter. 

At  a  bend  in  the  trail,  Dorothy  reined  up.   "Oh,  I 

293 


Tang  of  Life 

just  noticed!  You  are  wearing  your  chaps  this 
morning." 

Lorry  flushed,  and  turned  to  tie  a  saddle-string 
that  was  already  quite  secure. 

Dorothy  nodded  to  herself  and  spoke  to  the  horses. 
They  strained  on  up  a  steeper  pitch,  pausing  occa- 
sionally to  rest. 

Lorry  seemed  to  have  regained  his  old  manner. 
Her  mention  of  the  chaps  had  wakened  him  to  every- 
day affairs.  After  all,  she  was  only  a  girl;  not  yet 
eighteen,  her  father  had  said.  "Just  a  kid,"  Lorry 
had  thought;  "but  mighty  pretty  in  those  city 
clothes."  Pie  imagined  that  some  women  he  had  seen 
would  look  like  heck  in  such  a  riding-coat  and 
breeches.  But  Dorothy  looked  like  a  kind  of  stylish 
boy-girl,  slim  and  yet  not  quite  as  slender  as  she  had 
appeared  in  her  ordinary  clothes.  Lorry  could  not 
help  associating  her  appearance  with  a  thoroughbred 
he  had  once  seen;  a  dark-bay  colt,  satin  smooth  and 
as  graceful  as  a  flame.  He  had  all  but  worshiped  that 
horse.  Even  as  he  knew  horses,  through  that  colt  he 
had  seen  perfection;  his  ideal  of  something  beautiful 
beyond  words. 

From  his  pondering,  Lorry  arrived  at  a  conclusion 
having  nothing  to  do  with  ideals.  He  would  buy  a 
new  suit  of  clothes  the  first  time  he  went  to  Phoenix. 
It  would  be  a  trim  suit  of  corduroy  and  a  dark-green 
flannel  shirt,  like  the  suit  and  shirt  worn  by  Lundy, 
the  forestry  expert. 

294 


Idle  Noon 

At  the  base  of  a  great  gray  shoulder  of  granite,  the 
Big  Spring  spread  in  its  natural  rocky  bowl  which 
grew  shallower  toward  the  edges.  Below  the  spring 
in  the  black  mud  softened  by  the  overflow  were  the 
tracks  of  wild  turkey  and  the  occasional  print  of  a 
lynx  pad.  The  bush  had  been  cleared  from  around 
the  spring,  and  the  ashes  of  an  old  camp-fire  marked 
the  spot  where  Lorry  had  often  "bushed  over-night" 
on  his  way  to  the  cabin. 

Lorry  dismounted  and  tied  the  pack-horses.  He 
explained  that  they  were  still  a  little  too  close  to  home 
to  be  trusted  untied. 

Dorothy  decided  that  she  was  hungry,  although 
they  had  been  but  two  hours  on  the  trail.  Could 
they  have  a  real  camp-fire  and  make  coffee? 

"Yes,  ma'am;  right  quick." 

"Lorry,  don't  say  'yes,  ma'am.'  I  —  it's  nice  of 
you,  but  just  say  'Dorothy."' 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

Dorothy's  brown  eyes  twinkled. 

Lorry  gazed  at  her,  wondering  why  she  smiled. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  she  said  stiffly,  as  though  to  a 
superior  whom  she  feared. 

Lorry  grinned.  She  was  always  doing  something 
sprightly,  either  making  him  laugh  or  laughing  at 
him,  talking  to  the  horses,  planning  some  little  sur- 
prise for  their  occasional  dinners  in  the  Bronson 
cabin,  quoting  some  fragment  of  poetry  from  an  out- 
land  song,  —  she  called  these  songs  "outlandish," 

295 


Tang  of  Life 

and  had  explained  her  delight  in  teasing  her  father 
with  "outlandish"  adjectives;  whistling  in  answer 
to  the  birds,  and  amusing  herself  and  her  "men- 
folks"  in  a  thousand  ways  as  spontaneous  as  they 
were  delightful. 

With  an  armful  of  firewood,  Lorry  returned  to  the 
spring.  The  ponies  nodded  in  the  heat  of  noon. 
Dorothy,  spreading  their  modest  luncheon  on  a 
bright  new  Navajo  blanket,  seemed  daintier  than  ever 
against  the  background  of  the  forest.  They  made 
coffee  and  ate  the  sandwiches  she  had  prepared.  After 
luncheon  Lorry  smoked,  leaning  back  against  the 
granite  rock,  his  hat  off,  and  his  legs  crossed  in  lazy 
content. 

"If  it  could  only  be  like  this  forever,"  sighed 
Dorothy. 

Lorry  promptly  shook  his  head.  "  We  'd  get  hungry 
after  a  spell." 

"Men  are  always  hungry.  And  you've  just  eaten." 

"But  I  could  listen  to  a  poem,"  he  said,  and  he 
winked  at  a  tree-trunk. 

"It's  really  too  warm  even  to  speak  of  'The  Little 
Fires,'  isn't  it?  Oh,  I  know!  Do  you  remember  the 
camp  we  made?" 

"Where?" 

"Oh,  silly!" 

"Well,  I  ain't  had  time  to  remember  this  one  yet 
• —  and  this  is  the  first  for  us." 

"Lorry,  you're  awfully  practical." 

296 


Idle  Noon 

"I  got  to  be." 

"And  I  don't  believe  you  know  a  poem  when  you 
see  one." 

"I  reckon  you're  right.  But  I  can  tell  one  when  I 
hear  it." 

"Very  well,  then.  Shut  your  eyes  tight  and 
listen:  — 

"  *  Do  you  remember  the  camp  we  made  as  we  nooned  on  the  mesa 

floor, 
Where  the  grass  rolled  down  like  a  running  sea  in  the  wind  — 

and  the  world  our  own? 
You  laughed  as  you  sat  in  the  cedar  shade  and  said  't  was  the 

ocean  shore 
Of  an  island  lost  in  a  wizardry  of  dreams,  for  ourselves  alone. 

"'Our  ponies  grazed  in  the  idle  noon,  unsaddled,  at  ease,  and 

slow; 

The  ranges  dim  were  a  faeryland;  blue  hills  in  a  haze  of  gray. 
Hands  clasped  on  knee,  you  hummed  a  tune,  a  melody  light  and 

low; 

And  do  you  remember  the  venture  planned  in  jest  —  for  your 
heart  was  gay? ' ' 

Dorothy  paused.  "You  may  open  your  eyes. 
That's  all." 

"Well,  it's  noon,"  said  Lorry,  "and  there  are  the 
ponies,  and  the  hills  are  over  there.  Won't  you  say  the 
rest  of  it?" 

"Oh,  the  rest  of  it  is  about  a  venture  planned  that 
never  came  true.  It  could  n't,  even  in  a  poem.  But 
I'll  tell  you  about  it  some  day." 

"I  could  listen  right  now." 

Dorothy  shook  her  head.    "I  am  afraid  it  would 

297 


Tang  of  Life 

spoil  our  real  adventure.  But  if  I  were  a  boy  — 
would  n't  it  be  fun!  We  would  ride  and  camp  in  the 
hills  at  night  and  find  all  the  little  fires  along  the 
trail  —  " 

"We'd  make  our  own,"  said  Lorry. 

"Of  course,  Mr.  Practical  Man." 

"Well,  I  can't  help  bein'  like  I  am.  But  sometimes 
I  get  lazy  and  sit  and  look  at  the  hills  and  the  canons 
and  mesas  down  below,  and  wonder  what's  the  good 
of  hustlin'.  But  somehow  I  got  to  quit  loafin'  after  a 
spell  —  and  go  right  to  hustlin'again.  It 's  a  sure  good 
way  to  get  rested  up;  just  to  sit  down  and  forget 
everything  but  the  big  world  rollin'  down  to  the  edge 
of  nothin'.  It  makes  a  fella's  kickin'  and  complainm' 
look  kind  of  small  and  ornery." 

"I  never  heard  you  complain,  Lorry." 

"Huh!  You  ain't  been  along  with  me  when  I  been 
right  up  against  it  and  mebby  had  to  sweat  my  way 
out  of  some  darned  box  canon  or  make  a  ride  through 
some  down  timber  at  night.  I've  said  some  lovely 
things  them  times." 

"Oh,  I  get  cross.  But,  then,  I'm  a  girl.  Men 
should  n't  get  cross." 

"I  reckon  you're  right.  The  sun's  comin'  through 
that  pine  there.  Gettin'  too  hot?" 

"No,  I  love  it.  But  I  must  go.  I '11  just  ride  down 
to  the  cabin  and  unsaddle  Chinook  and  say  'Hello* 
to  father  —  and  that's  the  end  of  our  adventure." 

"Won't  those  city  folks  be  comin'  in  soon?" 

298 


Idle  Noon 

"Yes.  And  Alice  Weston  is  lovely.  I  know  you'll 
like  her." 

"Alice  who,  did  you  say?" 

"Weston.  Alice  and  her  mother  are  touring  over- 
land from  Los  Angeles.  I  know  you  will  admire  Alice." 

"Mebby.  If  she's  as  pretty  as  you." 

"Oh,  fudge!  You  like  my  new  suit.  And  Alice 
is  n't  like  me  at  all.  She  is  nearly  as  tall  as  you,  and 
big  and  strong  and  really  pretty.  Bud  Shoop  told  me 
I  wasn't  bigger  than  a  minute." 

"A  minute  is  a  whole  lot  sometimes,"  said  Lorry. 

"You're  not  so  practical  as  you  were,  are  you?" 

"More.   I  meant  that." 

Dorothy  rose  and  began  to  roll  the  Navajo  blanket. 

Lorry  stepped  up  and  took  it  from  her.  "Roll  it 
long  and  let  it  hang  down.  Then  it  won't  bother  you 
gettin'  on  or  off  your  horse.  That's  the  way  the  In- 
dians roll  'em." 

He  jerked  the  tie-strings  tight.  "Well,  I  reckon 
I'll  be  goin',"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand. 

"Good-bye,  ranger  man." 

"Good-bye,  Dorothy." 

Her  slender  hand  was  warm  in  his.  She  looked  up 
at  him,  smiling.  He  had  never  looked  at  her  that  way 
before.  She  hoped  so  much  that  he  would  say  nothing 
to  spoil  the  happiness  of  their  idle  noon. 

"Lorry,  we're  great  friends,  are  n't  we?" 

"You  bet.  And  I'd  do  most  anything  to  make  you 
happy." 

299 


Tang  of  Life 

"But  you  don't  have  to  do  anything  to  make  me 
happy.  I  am  happy.  Are  n't  you?" 

"I  aim  to  be.  But  what  makes  you  ask?" 

"Oh,  you  looked  so  solemn  a  minute  ago.  We'll 
be  just  friends  always,  won't  we?  " 

"Just  friends,"  he  echoed,  "always." 

Her  brown  eyes  grew  big  as  he  stooped  and  kissed 
her.  She  had  not  expected  that  he  would  do  that. 

"Oh,  I  thought  you  liked  me!"  she  said,  clasping 
her  hands. 

Lorry  bit  his  lips,  and  the  hot  flush  died  from  his  face. 

"But  I  didn't  know  that  you  cared  —  like  that! 
I  really  don't  mind  because  you  kissed  me  good-bye 
—  if  it  was  just  good-bye  and  nothing  else."  And  she 
smiled  a  little  timidly. 

"I  —  I  reckon  I  was  wrong,"  he  said,  "for  I  was 
tryin'  not  to  kiss  you.  If  you  say  the  word,  I  '11  ride 
back  with  you  and  tell  your  father.  I  ain't  ashamed 
of  it  —  only  if  you  say  it  was  wrong." 

Dorothy  had  recovered  herself.  A  twinkle  of  fun 
danced  in  her  eyes.  "I  can't  scold  you  now.  You're 
going  away.  But  when  you  get  back — "  And  she 
shook  her  finger  at  him  and  tried  to  look  very  grave, 
which  made  him  smile. 

"Then  I'll  keep  right  on  ridin'  south,"  he  said. 

"But  you'd  get  lonesome  and  come  back  to  your 
hills.  I  know!  And  it's  awfully  hot  in  the  desert." 

"Would  you  be  wantin'  me  to  come  back?" 

"Of  course.  Father  would  miss  you." 

300 


Idle  Noon 

"And  that  would  make  you  unhappy  —  him  bein' 
lonesome,  so  I  reckon  I'll  come  back." 

"I  shall  be  very  busy  entertaining  my  guests," 
she  told  him  with  a  charming  tilt  of  her  chin.  And  she 
straightway  swung  to  the  saddle. 

Lorry  started  the  pack-horses  up  the  hill  and 
mounted  Gray  Leg.  She  sat  watching  him  as  he  rode 
sideways  gazing  back  at  her. 

As  he  turned  to  follow  the  pack-horses  up  the  next 
ascent  she  called  to  him:  — 

"Perhaps  I  won't  scold  you  when  you  come  back." 

He  laughed,  and  flung  up  his  arm  in  farewell. 
Dorothy  reined  Chinook  round,  and  rode  slowly 
down  through  the  silent  woodlands. 

Her  father  came  out  and  took  her  horse.  She  told 
him  of  their  most  wonderful  camp  at  the  Big  Spring. 
Bronson  smiled. 

"And  Lorry  kissed  me  good-bye,"  she  concluded. 
"Was  n't  it  silly  of  him?" 

Bronson  glanced  at  her  quickly.  "Do  you  really 
care  for  Lorry,  Peter  Pan?" 

"Heaps!  He's  the  nicest  boy  I  ever  met.  Why 
shouldn't  I?" 

"There's  no  reason  in  the  world  why  you  should 
n't.  But  I  thought  you  two  were  just  friends." 

"Why,  that's  what  I  said  to  Lorry.  Don't  look  so 
mournful,  daddy.  You  did  n't  think  for  a  minute 
that  I'd  marry  him,  did  you?" 

"Of  course  not.  What  would  I  do  without  you? " 


Chapter  XXVII 

Waco 

tramp  Waco,  drifting  south  through 
Prescott,  fell  in  with  a  quartet  of  his  kind 
camped  along  the  railroad  track.  He  stum- 
bled down  the  embankment  and  "sat  in"  beside  their 
night  fire.  He  was  hungry.  He  had  no  money,  and 
he  had  tramped  all  that  day.  They  were  eating  bread 
and  canned  peaches,  and  had  coffee  simmering  in  a 
pail.  They  asked  no  questions  until  he  had  eaten. 
Then  the  usual  talk  began. 

The  hobos  cursed  the  country,  its  people,  the  rail- 
road, work  and  the  lack  of  it,  the  administration,  and 
themselves.  Waco  did  not  agree  with  everything  they 
said,  but  he  wished  to  tramp  with  them  until  some- 
thing better  offered.  So  he  fell  in  with  their  humor, 
but  made  the  mistake  of  cursing  the  trainmen's 
union.  A  brakeman  had  kicked  him  off  a  freight  car 
just  outside  of  Prescott. 

One  of  the  hobos  checked  Waco  sharply. 

"We  ain't  here  to  listen  to  your  cussin'  any  union," 
he  said.  "And  seein*  you're  so  mouthy,  just  show 
your  card." 

"Left  it  over  to  the  White  House,"  said  Waco. 

"That  don't  go.  You  got  your  three  letters?" 

"Sure!  W.B.Y.  Catch  onto  that? " 

302 


Waco 

"No.  And  this  ain't  no  josh." 

"Why,  W.B.Y.  is  for  'What's  bitin'  you?'  Know 
the  answer?" 

"If  you  can't  show  your  I.W.W.,  you  can  beat  it," 
said  the  tramp. 

"Tryin'tokidme?" 

"Not  so  as  your  mother  would  notice.  Got  your 
card?" 

Waco  finally  realized  that  they  meant  business. 
"No,  I  ain't  got  no  I.W.W.  card.  I'm  a  bo,  same  as 
you  fellas,  What's  bitin'  you,  anyway?" 

"Let's  give  him  the  third,  fellas." 

Waco  jumped  to  his  feet  and  backed  away.  The 
leader  of  the  group  hesitated  wisely,  because  Waco 
had  a  gun  in  his  hand. 

"So  that's  your  game,  eh?  Collectin'  internal  reve- 
nue. Well,  we're  union  men.  You  better  sift  along." 
And  the  leader  sat  down. 

"I've  a  dam'  good  mind  to  sift  you,"  said  Waco, 
backing  toward  the  embankment.  "Got  to  have  a 
card  to  travel  with  a  lousy  bunch  like  you,  eh?" 

He  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  embankment,  and, 
turning,  ran  down  the  track.  Things  were  in  a  fine 
state  when  a  guy  could  n't  roll  in  with  a  bunch  of 
willies  without  showing  a  card.  Workmen  often 
tramped  the  country  looking  for  work.  But  hobos 
forming  a  union  and  calling  themselves  workmen! 
Even  Waco  could  not  digest  that. 

But  he  had  learned  a  lesson,  and  the  next  group 

303 


Tang  of  Life 

that  he  overtook  treading  the  cinders  were  more 
genial.  One  of  them  gave  him  some  bread  and  cold 
meat.  They  tramped  until  nightfall.  That  evening 
Waco  industriously  "lifted"  a  chicken  from  a  con- 
venient hencoop.  The  hen  was  old  and  tough  and 
most  probably  a  grandmother  of  many  years'  setting, 
but  she  was  a  welcome  contribution  to  their  evening 
meal.  While  they  ate  Waco  asked  them  if  they 
belonged  to  the  I.W.W.  They  did  to  a  man.  He  had 
lost  his  card.  Where  could  he  get  a  renewal?  From 
headquarters,  of  course.  But  he  had  been  given  his 
card  up  in  Portland;  he  had  cooked  in  a  lumber  camp. 
In  that  case  he  would  have  to  see  the  "boss"  at 
Phoenix. 

There  were  three  men  in  the  party  besides  Waco. 
One  of  them  claimed  to  be  a  carpenter,  another  an 
ex-railroad  man,  and  the  third  an  iron  moulder. 
Waco,  to  keep  up  appearances,  said  that  he  was  a 
cook;  that  he  had  lost  his  job  in  the  Northern  camps 
on  account  of  trouble  between  the  independent  lum- 
bermen and  the  I.W.W.  It  happened  that  there  had 
been  some  trouble  of  that  kind  recently,  so  his  word 
was  taken  at  its  face  value. 

In  Phoenix,  he  was  directed  to  the  "headquarters," 
a  disreputable  lounging-room  in  an  abandoned  store 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  town.  There  were  papers  and 
magazines  scattered  about;  socialistic  journals  and 
many  newspapers  printed  in  German,  Russian,  and 
Italian.  The  place  smelled  of  stale  tobacco  smoke 

304 


Waco 

and  unwashed  clothing.  But  the  organization  evi- 
dently had  money.  No  one  seemed  to  want  for  food, 
tobacco,  or  whiskey. 

The  "boss,"  a  sharp-featured  young  man,  aggres- 
sive and  apparently  educated,  asked  Waco  some 
questions  which  the  tramp  answered  lamely.  The 
boss,  eager  for  recruits  of  Waco's  stamp,  nevertheless 
demurred  until  Waco  reiterated  the  statement  that 
he  could  cook,  was  a  good  cook  and  had  earned  good 
money. 

"I'll  give  you  a  renewal  of  your  card.  What  was 
the  number?"  queried  the  boss. 

"Thirteen,"  said  Waco,  grinning. 

"Well,  we  may  be  able  to  use  you.  We  want  cooks 
at  Sterling." 

"All  right.  Nothin'  doin'  here,  anyway." 

The  boss  smiled  to  himself.  He  knew  that  Waco 
had  never  belonged  to  the  I.W.W.,  but  if  the  impend- 
ing strike  at  the  Sterling  smelter  became  a  reality  a 
good  cook  would  do  much  to  hold  the  I.W.W.  camp 
together.  Any  tool  that  could  be  used  was  not  over- 
looked by  the  boss.  He  was  paid  to  hire  men  for  a 
purpose. 

In  groups  of  from  ten  to  thirty  the  scattered  aggre- 
gation made  its  way  to  Sterling  and  mingled  with  the 
workmen  after  hours.  A  sinister  restlessness  grew 
and  spread  insidiously  among  the  smelter  hands. 
Men  laid  off  before  pay-day  and  were  seen  drunk  in 
the  streets.  Others  appeared  at  the  smelter  in  a  like 

305 


Tang  of  Life 

condition.  They  seemed  to  have  money  with  which 
to  pay  for  drinks  and  cigars.  The  heads  of  the  differ- 
ent departments  of  the  smelter  became  worried.  Local 
papers  began  to  make  mention  of  an  impending 
strike  when  no  such  word  had  as  yet  come  to  the 
smelter  operators.  Outside  papers  took  it  up.  Sur- 
mises were  many  and  various.  Few  of  the  papers 
dared  charge  the  origin  of  the  disturbances  to  the 
I.W.W.  The  law  had  not  been  infringed  upon,  yet 
lawlessness  was  everywhere,  conniving  in  dark  cor- 
ners, boasting  openly  on  the  street,  setting  men's 
brains  afire  with  whiskey,  playing  upon  the  ignorance 
of  the  foreign  element,  and  defying  the  intelligence 
of  Americans  who  strove  to  forfend  the  threatened 
calamity. 

The  straight  union  workmen  were  divided  in  senti- 
ment. Some  of  them  voted  to  work;  others  voted 
loudly  to  throw  in  with  the  I.W.W.,  and  among  these 
were  many  foreigners  —  Swedes,  Hungarians,  Ger- 
mans, Poles,  Italians;  the  usual  and  undesirable 
agglomeration  to  be  found  in  a  smelter  town. 

Left  to  themselves,  they  would  have  continued  to 
work.  They  were  in  reality  the  cheaper  tools  of  the 
trouble-makers.  There  were  fewer  and  keener  tools 
to  be  used,  and  these  were  selected  and  turned  against 
their  employers  by  that  irresistible  potency,  gold; 
gold  that  came  from  no  one  knew  where,  and  came  in 
abundance.  Finally  open  threats  of  a  strike  were 
made.  Circulars  were  distributed  throughout  town 

306 


Waco 

overnight,  cleverly  misstating  conditions.  A  grain  of 
truth  was  dissolved  in  the  slaver  of  anarchy  into  a 
hundred  lies. 

Waco,  installed  in  the  main  I.W.W.  camp  just  out- 
side the  town,  cooked  early  and  late,  and  received  a 
good  wage  for  his  services.  More  men  appeared, 
coming  casually  from  nowhere  and  taking  up  their 
abode  with  the  disturbers. 

A  week  before  the  strike  began,  a  committee  from 
the  union  met  with  a  committee  of  townsmen  and 
representatives  of  the  smelter  interests.  The  argu- 
ment was  long  and  inconclusive.  Aside  from  this,  a 
special  committee  of  townsmen,  headed  by  the  mayor, 
interviewed  the  I.W.W.  leaders. 

Arriving  at  no  definite  understanding,  the  citizens 
finally  threatened  to  deport  the  trouble-makers  in  a 
body.  The  I.W.W.  members  laughed  at  them.  Social- 
ism, in  which  many  of  the  better  class  of  workmen 
believed  sincerely,  began  to  take  on  the  red  tinge  of 
anarchy.  A  notable  advocate  of  arbitration,  a  fore- 
man in  the  smelter,  was  found  one  morning  beaten 
into  unconsciousness.  And  no  union  man  had  done 
this  thing,  for  the  foreman  was  popular  with  the 
union,  to  a  man.  The  mayor  received  an  anonymous 
letter  threatening  his  life.  A  similar  letter  was  re- 
ceived by  the  chief  of  police.  And  some  few  politi- 
cians who  had  won  to  prominence  through  question- 
able methods  were  threatened  with  exposure  if  they 
did  not  side  with  the  strikers. 

807 


Tang  of  Life 

Conditions  became  deplorable.  The  papers  dared 
not  print  everything  they  knew  for  fear  of  political 
enmity.  And  they  were  not  able  to  print  many  things 
transpiring  in  that  festering  underworld  for  lack  of 
definite  knowledge,  even  had  they  dared. 

Noon  of  an  August  day  the  strikers  walked  out. 
Mob  rule  threatened  Sterling.  Women  dared  no 
longer  send  their  children  to  school  or  to  the  grocery 
stores  for  food.  They  hardly  dared  go  themselves. 
A  striker  was  shot  by  a  companion  in  a  saloon  brawl. 
The  killing  was  immediately  charged  to  a  corporation 
detective,  and  our  noble  press  made  much  of  the 
incident  before  it  found  out  the  truth. 

Shortly  after  this  a  number  of  citizens  representing 
the  business  backbone  of  the  town  met  quietly  and 
drafted  a  letter  to  a  score  of  citizens  whom  they 
thought  might  be  trusted.  That  was  Saturday  even- 
ing. On  Sunday  night  there  were  nearly  a  hundred 
men  in  town  who  had  been  reached  by  the  citizens' 
committee.  They  elected  a  sub-committee  of  twelve, 
with  the  sheriff  as  chairman.  Driven  to  desperation 
by  intolerable  conditions,  they  decided  to  administer 
swift  and  conclusive  justice  themselves.  To  send  for 
troops  would  be  an  admission  that  the  town  of  Ster- 
ling could  not  handle  her  own  community. 

It  became  whispered  among  the  I.W.W.  that  "The 
Hundred"  had  organized.  Leaders  of  the  strikers 
laughed  at  these  rumors,  telling  the  men  that  the  day 
of  the  vigilante  was  past. 

308 


Waco 

On  the  following  Wednesday  a  rabid  leader  of  the 
disturbers,  not  a  union  man,  but  a  man  who  had  never 
done  a  day's  work  in  his  life,  mounted  a  table  on  a 
street  corner  and  addressed  the  crowd  which  quickly 
swelled  to  a  mob.  Members  of  "The  Hundred," 
sprinkled  thinly  throughout  the  mob,  listened  until 
the  speaker  had  finished.  Among  other  things,  he 
had  made  a  statement  about  the  National  Govern- 
ment which  should  have  turned  the  mob  to  a  tribunal 
of  prompt  justice  and  hanged  him.  But  many  of  the 
men  were  drunk,  and  all  were  inflamed  with  the 
poison  of  the  hour.  When  the  man  on  the  table  con- 
tinued to  slander  the  Government,  and  finally  named 
a  name,  there  was  silence.  A  few  of  the  better  class 
of  workmen  edged  out  of  the  crowd.  The  scattered 
members  of  "The  Hundred"  stayed  on  to  the  last 
word.  * 

Next  morning  this  speaker  was  found  dead,  hang- 
ing from  a  bridge  a  little  way  out  of  town.  Not  a 
few  of  the  strikers  were  startled  to  a  sense  of  broad 
justice  in  his  death,  and  yet  such  a  hanging  was  an 
outrage  to  any  community.  One  sin  did  not  blot  out 
another.  And  the  loyal  "Hundred"  realized  too  late 
that  they  had  put  a  potent  weapon  in  the  hands  of 
their  enemies. 

A  secret  meeting  was  called  by  "The  Hundred." 
Wires  were  commandeered  and  messages  sent  to 
several  towns  in  the  northern  part  of  the  State  to  men 
known  personally  by  members  of  "The  Hundred"  as 

809 


Tang  of  Life 

fearless  and  loyal  to  American  institutions.  Already 
the  mob  had  begun  rioting,  but,  meeting  with  no  re- 
sistance, it  contented  itself  with  insulting  those  whom 
they  knew  were  not  sympathizers.  Stores  were  closed, 
and  were  straightway  broken  into  and  looted.  Drunk- 
enness and  street  fights  were  so  common  as  to  evoke 
no  comment. 

Two  days  later  a  small  band  of  cowboys  rode  into 
town.  They  were  followed  throughout  the  day  by 
other  riders,  singly  and  in  small  groups.  It  became 
noised  about  the  I.W.W.  camp  that  professional  gun- 
men were  being  hired  by  the  authorities;  were  coming 
in  on  horseback  and  on  the  trains.  That  night  the 
roadbed  of  the  railroad  was  dynamited  on  both  sides 
of  town.  "The  Hundred"  immediately  dispatched 
automobiles  with  armed  guards  to  meet  the  trains. 

Later,  strangers  were  seen  in  town ;  quiet  men  who 
carried  themselves  coolly,  said  nothing,  and  paid  no 
attention  to  catcalls  and  insults.  It  was  rumored  that 
troops  had  been  sent  for.  Meanwhile,  the  town 
seethed  with  anarchy  and  drunkenness.  But,  as  must 
ever  be  the  case,  anarchy  was  slowly  weaving  a  rope 
with  which  to  hang  itself. 

Up  in  the  second  story  of  the  court-house  a  broad- 
shouldered,  heavy- jawed  man  sat  at  a  flat-topped 
desk  with  a  clerk  beside  him.  The  clerk  wrote  names 
in  a  book.  In  front  of  the  clerk  was  a  cigar-box  filled 
with  numbered  brass  checks.  The  rows  of  chairs  from 
the  desk  to  the  front  windows  were  pretty  well  filled 

310 


Waco 

with  men,  lean,  hard-muscled  men  of  the  ranges  in 
the  majority.  The  room  was  quiet  save  for  an  occa- 
sional word  from  the  big  man  at  the  desk.  The  clerk 
drew  a  check  from  the  cigar-box.  A  man  stepped  up 
to  the  desk,  gave  his  name,  age,  occupation,  and 
address,  received  the  numbered  check,  and  went  to 
his  seat.  The  clerk  drew  another  check. 

A  fat,  broad-shouldered  man  waddled  up,  smiling. 

"Why,  hello,  Bud!"  said  the  heavy-jawed  man, 
rising  and  shaking  hands.  "I  didn't  expect  to  see 
you.  Wired  you  thinking  you  might  send  one  or  two 
men  from  your  county." 

"I  got  'em  with  me,"  said  Bud. 

"Number  thirty-seven,"  said  the  clerk. 

Bud  stuffed  the  check  in  his  vest  pocket.  He  would 
receive  ten  dollars  a  day  while  in  the  employ  of  "The 
Hundred."  He  would  be  known  and  addressed  while 
on  duty  as  number  thirty-seven.  "The  Hundred" 
were  not  advertising  the  names  of  their  supporters 
for  future  use  by  the  I.W.W. 

Bud's  name  and  address  were  entered  in  a  note- 
book. He  waddled  back  to  his  seat. 

"Cow-punch,"  said  some  one  behind  him. 

Bud  turned  and  grinned.  "You  seen  my  laigs,"  he 
retorted. 

"Number  thirty-eight." 

Lorry  came  forward  and  received  his  check. 

"You're  pretty  young,"  said  the  man  at  the  desk. 
Lorry  flushed,  but  made  no  answer. 

311 


Tang  of  Life 

"Number  thirty-nine." 

The  giant  sheepman  of  the  high  country  strode  up, 
nodded,  and  took  his  check. 

"Stacey  County  is  well  represented,"  said  the  man 
at  the  desk. 

When  the  clerk  had  finished  entering  the  names, 
there  were  forty-eight  numbers  in  his  book.  The  man 
at  the  desk  rose. 

"Men,"  he  said  grimly,  "you  know  what  you  are 
here  for.  If  you  have  n't  got  guns,  you  will  be  out- 
fitted downstairs.  Some  folks  think  that  this  trouble 
is  only  local.  It  isn't.  It  is  national.  Providence 
seems  to  have  passed  the  buck  to  us  to  stop  it.  We 
are  here  to  prove  that  we  can.  Last  night  our  flag  — 
our  country's  flag  —  was  torn  from  the  halyards 
above  this  building  and  trampled  in  the  dust  of  the 
street.  Sit  still  and  don't  make  a  noise.  We're  not 
doing  business  that  way.  If  there  are  any  married 
men  here,  they  had  better  take  their  horses  and  ride 
home.  This  community  does  not  assume  responsi- 
bility for  any  man's  life.  You  are  volunteers.  There 
are  four  ex-Rangers  among  you.  They  will  tell  you 
what  to  do.  But  I'm  going  to  tell  you  one  thing  first; 
don't  shoot  high  or  low  when  you  have  to  shoot. 
Draw  plumb  center,  and  don't  quit  as  long  as  you 
can  feel  to  pull  a  trigger.  For  any  man  that  is  n't 
outfitted  there's  a  rifle  and  fifty  rounds  of  soft-nosed 
ammunition  downstairs." 

The  heavy-shouldered  man  sat  down  and  pulled  the 

312 


Waco 

notebook  toward  him.  The  men  rose  and  filed  quietly 
downstairs. 

As  they  gathered  in  the  street  and  gazed  up  at  the 
naked  halyards,  a  shot  dropped  one  of  them  in  his 
tracks.  An  eagle-faced  cowman  whipped  out  his  gun. 
With  the  report  came  the  tinkle  of  breaking  glass 
from  a  window  diagonally  opposite.  Feet  clattered 
down  the  stairs  of  the  building,  and  a  woman  ran  into 
the  street,  screaming  and  calling  out  that  a  man  had 
been  murdered. 

"Reckon  I  got  him,"  said  the  cowman.  "Boys,  I 
guess  she's  started." 

The  men  ran  for  their  horses.  As  they  mounted 
and  assembled,  the  heavy-shouldered  man  appeared 
astride  a  big  bay  horse. 

"We're  going  to  clean  house,"  he  stated.  "And 
we  start  right  here." 


Chapter  XXVIII 

A  Squared  Account 

THE  housecleaning  began  at  the  building 
diagonally  opposite  the  assembled  posse. 
In  a  squalid  room  upstairs  they  found  the 
man  who  had  fired  upon  them.  He  was  dead.  Papers 
found  upon  him  disclosed  his  identity  as  an  I.W.W. 
leader.  He  had  evidently  rented  the  room  across 
from  the  courthouse  that  he  might  watch  the  move- 
ments of  "The  Hundred."  A  cheap,  inaccurate  re- 
volver was  found  beside  him.  Possibly  he  had  fired, 
thinking  to  momentarily  disorganize  the  posse;  that 
they  would  not  know  from  where  the  shot  had  come 
until  he  had  had  time  to  make  his  escape  and  warn 
his  fellows. 

The  posse  moved  from  building  to  building.  Each 
tenement,  private  rooming-house,  and  shack  was 
entered  and  searched.  Union  men  who  chanced  to 
be  at  home  were  warned  that  any  man  seen  on  the 
street  that  day  was  in  danger  of  being  killed.  Sev- 
eral members  of  the  I.W.W.  were  routed  out  in  dif- 
ferent parts  of  the  town  and  taken  to  the  jail. 

Saloons  were  ordered  to  close.  Saloon-keepers  who 
argued  their  right  to  keep  open  were  promptly  ar- 
rested. An  I.W.W.  agitator,  defying  the  posse,  was 
handcuffed,  loaded  into  a  machine,  and  taken  out 

314 


A  Squared  Account 

of  town.  Groups  of  strikers  gathered  at  the  street 
corners  and  jeered  the  armed  posse.  One  group, 
cornered  in  a  side  street,  showed  fight. 

"We'll  burn  your  dam'  town!"  cried  a  voice. 

The  sheriff  swung  from  his  horse  and  shouldered 
through  the  crowd.  As  he  did  so,  a  light-haired, 
weasel-faced  youth,  with  a  cigarette  dangling  from 
the  corner  of  his  loose  mouth,  backed  away.  The 
sheriff  followed  and  pressed  him  against  a  building. 

"I  know  you!"  said  the  sheriff.  "You  never  made 
or  spent  an  honest  dollar  in  this  town.  Boys,"  he 
continued,  turning  to  the  strikers,  "are  you  proud 
of  this  skunk  who  wants  to  burn  your  town?" 

A  workman  laughed. 

"You  said  it!"  asserted  the  sheriff.  "When  some- 
body tells  you  what  he  is,  you  laugh.  Why  don't 
you  laugh  at  him  when  he's  telling  you  of  the  build- 
ings he  has  dynamited  and  how  many  deaths  he  is 
responsible  for?  Did  he  ever  sweat  alongside  of  any 
of  you  doing  a  day's  work?  Do  you  know  him?  Does 
he  know  anything  about  your  work  or  conditions? 
Not  a  damned  thing!  Just  think  it  over.  And,  boys, 
remember  he  is  paid  easy  money  to  get  you  into 
trouble.  Who  pays  him?  Is  there  any  decent  Ameri- 
can paying  him  to  do  that  sort  of  thing?  Stop  and 
think  about  it." 

The  weasel-faced  youth  raised  his  arm  and  pointed 
at  the  sheriff.  "Who  pays  you  to  shoot  down  women 
and  kids?"  he  snarled. 

315 


Tang  of  Life  , 

"I'm  taking  orders  from  the  Governor  of  this 
State." 

"To  hell  with  the  Governor!  And  there's  where 
he'll  wake  up  one  of  these  fine  days." 

"Because  he's  enforcing  the  law  and  trying  to 
keep  the  flag  from  being  insulted  by  whelps  like  you, 
eh?" 

"We'll  show  you  what's  law!  And  we'll  show  you 
the  right  kind  of  a  flag  — " 

"Boys,  are  you  going  to  stand  for  this  kind  of 
talk?"  And  the  sheriff's  heavy  face  quivered  with 
anger.  "I'd  admire  to  kill  you!"  he  said,  turning  on 
the  youth.  "But  that  would  n't  do  any  good." 

The  agitator  was  taken  to  the  jail.  Later  it  was 
rumored  that  a  machine  had  left  the  jail  that  night 
with  three  men  in  it.  Two  of  them  were  armed 
guards.  The  third  was  a  weasel-faced  youth.  He 
was  never  heard  of  again. 

As  the  cavalcade  moved  on  down  the  street,  work- 
men gathered  on  street  corners  and  in  upper  rooms 
and  discussed  the  situation.  The  strike  had  got 
beyond  their  control.  Many  of  them  were  for  send- 
ing a  delegation  to  the  I.W.W.  camp  demanding 
that  they  disband  and  leave.  Others  were  silent,  and 
still  others  voted  loudly  to  "fight  to  a  finish." 

Out  beyond  the  edge  of  town  lay  the  I.W.W. 
camp,  a  conglomeration  of  board  shacks  hastily 
erected,  brush-covered  hovels,  and  tents.  Not 
counting  the  scattered  members  in  town,  there  were 

316 


t  A  Squared  Account 

at  least  two  hundred  of  the  malcontents  loafing  in 
camp.  When  the  sheriff's  posse  appeared  it  was  met 
by  a  deputation.  But  there  was  no  parley. 

"We'll  give  you  till  sundown  to  clear  out,"  said 
the  sheriff  and,  turning,  he  and  his  men  rode  back 
to  the  courthouse. 

That  evening  sentinels  were  posted  at  the  street 
corners  within  hail  of  each  other.  In  a  vacant  lot 
back  of  the  court-house  the  horses  of  the  posse  were 
corralled  under  guard.  The  town  was  quiet.  Occa- 
sionally a  figure  crossed  the  street;  some  shawl- 
hooded  striker's  wife  or  some  workman  heedless  of 
the  sheriff's  warning. 

Lorry  happened  to  be  posted  on  a  corner  of  the 
court-house  square.  Across  the  street  another  sen- 
tinel paced  back  and  forth,  occasionally  pausing  to 
talk  with  Lorry. 

This  sentinel  was  halfway  up  the  block  when  a 
figure  appeared  from  the  shadow  between  two  build- 
ings. The  sentinel  challenged. 

"A  friend,"  said  the  figure.  "I  was  lookin'  for 
young  Adams." 

"What  do  you  want  with  him?" 

"It's  private.  Know  where  I  can  find  him?" 

"He's  across  the  street  there.  Who  are  you,  any- 
way?" 

"That's  my  business.  He  knows  me." 

"This  guy  wants  to  talk  to  you,"  called  the  sen- 
tinel. 

317 


Tang  of  Life 

Lorry  stepped  across  the  street.  He  stopped  sud- 
denly as  he  discovered  the  man  to  be  Waco,  the 
tramp. 

"Is  it  all  right?"  asked  the  sentinel,  addressing 
Lorry. 

"I  guess  so.  What  do  you  want?" 

"It's  about  Jim  Waring,"  said  Waco.  "I  seen 
you  when  the  sheriff  rode  up  to  our  camp.  I  seen 
by  the  papers  that  Jim  Waring  was  your  father.  I 
wanted  to  tell  you  that  it  was  High-Chin  Bob  what 
killed  Pat.  I  was  in  the  buckboard  with  Pat  when 
he  done  it.  The  horses  went  crazy  at  the  shootin' 
and  ditched  me.  When  I  come  to  I  was  in  Grant." 

"Why  did  n't  you  stay  and  tell  what  you  knew? 
Nobody  would  'a'  hurt  you." 

"I  was  takin'  no  chance  of  the  third,  and  twenty 
years." 

"What  you  doin'  in  this  town?" 

"Cookin'  for  the  camp.  But  I  can't  hold  that  job 
long.  My  whole  left  side  is  goin'  flooey.  The  boss 
give  me  hallelujah  to-day  for  bein'  slow.  I'm  sick 
of  the  job." 

"Well,  you  ought  to  be.  Suppose  you  come  over 
to  the  sheriff  and  tell  him  what  you  know  about  the 
killin'  of  Pat." 

"Nope;  I  was  scared  you  would  say  that.  I'm 
tellin'  you  because  you  done  me  a  good  turn  onct. 
I  guess  that  lets  me  out." 

"Not  if  I  make  you  sit  in." 

318 


A  Squared  Account 

"You  can  make  me  sit  in  all  right.  But  you  can't 
make  me  talk.  Show  me  a  cop  and  I  freeze.  I  ain't 
takin'  no  chances." 

"You're  takin'  bigger  chances  right  now." 

" Bigger 'n  you  know,  kid.  Listen!  You  and  Jim 
Waring  and  Pat  used  me  white.  I'm  sore  at  that 
I.W.W.  bunch,  but  I  dassent  make  a  break.  They  'd 
get  me.  But  listen!  If  the  boys  knowed  I  was  tellin' 
you  this  they'd  cut  me  in  two.  Two  trucks  just  came 
into  camp  from  up  north.  Them  trucks  was  loaded 
to  the  guards.  Every  man  in  camp's  got  a  automa- 
tic and  fifty  rounds.  And  they  was  settin'  up  a  ma- 
chine gun  when  I  slipped  through  and  beat  it,  lookin* 
for  you.  You  better  fan  it  out  of  this  while  you  got 
the  chanct." 

"Did  they  send  you  over  to  push  that  bluff  —  or 
are  you  talkin'  straight?" 

"S'  help  me!  It's  the  bleedin'  truth!" 

"Well,  I'm  thankin'  you.  But  get  goin'  afore  I 
change  my  mind." 

"Would  you  shake  with  a  bum?"  queried  Waco. 

"Why  —  all  right.  You're  tryin'  to  play  square, 
I  reckon.  Wait  a  minute!  Are  you  willin'  to  put  in 
writin'  that  you  seen  High-Chin  Bob  kill  Pat?  I 
got  a  pencil  and  a  envelope  on  me.  Will  you  put 
it  down  right  here,  and  me  to  call  my  friend  and 
witness  your  name?" 

"You  tryin'  to  pinch  me?" 

"That  ain't  my  style." 

319 


Tang  of  Life 

"All  right.   I'll  put  it  down." 

And  in  the  flickering  rays  of  the  arc  light  Waco 
scribbled  on  the  back  of  the  envelope  and  signed 
his  name.  Lorry's  companion  read  the  scrawl  and 
handed  it  back  to  Lorry.  Waco  humped  his  shoul- 
ders and  shuffled  away. 

"Why  did  n't  you  nail  him?"  queried  the  other. 

"I  don't  know.  Mebby  because  he  was  trustin' 
me." 

Shortly  afterward  Lorry  and  his  companion  were 
relieved  from  duty.  Lorry  immediately  reported  to 
the  sheriff,  who  heard  him  without  interrupting, 
dismissed  him,  and  turned  to  the  committee,  who 
held  night  session  discussing  the  situation. 

"They've  called  our  bluff,"  he  said,  twisting  his 
cigar  round  in  his  lips. 

A  ballot  was  taken.  The  vote  was  eleven  to  one 
for  immediate  action.  The  ballot  was  secret,  but  the 
member  who  had  voted  against  action  rose  and  ten- 
dered his  resignation. 

"It  would  be  plain  murder  if  we  were  to  shoot  up 
their  camp.  It  would  place  us  on  their  level." 

Just  before  daybreak  a  guard  stationed  two  blocks 
west  of  the  courthouse  noticed  a  flare  of  light  in  the 
windows  of  a  building  opposite.  He  glanced  toward 
the  east.  The  dim,  ruddy  glow  in  the  windows  was 
not  that  of  dawn.  He  ran  to  the  building  and  tried 
to  open  the  door  to  the  stairway.  As  he  wrenched 
at  the  door  a  subdued  soft  roar  swelled  and  grew 

320 


A  Squared  Account 

louder.  Turning,  he  ran  to  the  next  corner,  calling 
to  the  guard.  The  alarm  of  fire  was  relayed  to  the 
court-house. 

Meanwhile  the  two  cowboys  ran  back  to  the  build- 
ing and  hammered  on  the  door.  Some  one  in  an  up- 
stairs room  screamed.  Suddenly  the  door  gave  in- 
ward. A  woman  carrying  a  cheap  gilt  clock  pushed 
past  them  and  sank  in  a  heap  on  the  sidewalk.  The 
guards  heard  some  one  running  down  the  street. 
One  of  them  tied  a  handkerchief  over  his  face  and 
groped  his  way  up  the  narrow  stairs.  The  hall  above 
was  thick  with  smoke.  A  door  sprang  open,  and  a 
man  carrying  a  baby  and  dragging  a  woman  by  the 
hand  bumped  into  the  guard,  cursed,  and  stumbled 
toward  the  stairway. 

The  cowboy  ran  from  door  to  door  down  the  long, 
narrow  hall,  calling  to  the  inmates.  In  one  room  he 
found  a  lamp  burning  on  a  dresser  and  two  children 
asleep.  He  dragged  them  from  bed  and  carried  them 
to  the  stairway.  From  below  came  the  surge  and 
snap  of  flames.  He  held  his  breath  and  descended 
the  stairs.  A  crowd  of  half-clothed  workmen  had 
gathered.  Among  them  he  saw  several  of  the  guards. 

"Who  belongs  to  these  kids?"  he  cried. 

A  woman  ran  up.  "She's  here,"  she  said,  point- 
ing to  the  woman  with  the  gilt  clock,  who  still  lay 
on  the  sidewalk.  A  man  was  trying  to  revive  her. 
The  cowboy  noticed  that  the  unconscious  woman 
still  gripped  the  gilt  clock. 

321 


Tang  of  Life 

He  called  to  a  guard.  Together  they  dashed  up  the 
stairs  and  ran  from  room  to  room.  Toward  the  back 
of  the  building  they  found  a  woman  insanely  gath- 
ering together  a  few  cheap  trinkets  and  stuffing  them 
into  a  pillow-case.  She  was  trying  to  work  a  gilt- 
framed  lithograph  into  the  pillow-case  when  they 
seized  her  and  led  her  toward  the  stairway.  She 
fought  and  cursed  and  begged  them  to  let  her  go 
back  and  get  her  things.  A  burst  of  flame  swept  up 
the  stairway.  The  cowboys  turned  and  ran  back 
along  the  hall.  One  of  them  kicked  a  window  out. 
The  other  tied  a  sheet  under  the  woman's  arms  and 
together  they  lowered  her  to  the  ground. 

Suddenly  the  floor  midway  down  the  hall  sank 
softly  in  a  fountain  of  flame  and  sparks. 

"Reckon  we  jump,"  said  one  of  the  cowboys. 

Lowering  himself  from  the  rear  window,  he  dropped. 
His  companion  followed.  They  limped  to  the  front 
of  the  building.  A  crowd  massed  in  the  street,  heed- 
less of  the  danger  that  threatened  as  a  section  of 
roof  curled  like  a  piece  of  paper,  writhed,  and  dropped 
to  the  sidewalk. 

A  group  of  guards  appeared  with  a  hose-reel.  They 
coupled  to  a  hydrant.  A  thin  stream  gurgled  from 
the  hose  and  subsided.  The  sheriff  ran  to  the  steps 
of  a  building  and  called  to  the  crowd. 

"Your  friends,"  he  cried,  "have  cut  the  water- 
main.  There  is  no  water." 

The  mass  groaned  and  swayed  back  and  forth. 

322 


A  Squared  Account 

From  up  the  street  came  a  cry  —  the  call  of  a 
range  rider.  A  score  of  cowboys  tried  to  force  the 
crowd  back  from  the  burning  building. 

"  Look  out  for  the  front ! "  cried  the  guards.  "  She 's 
coming!" 

The  crowd  surged  back.  The  front  of  that  flam- 
ing shell  quivered,  curved,  and  crashed  to  the  street. 

The  sheriff  called  to  his  men.  An  old  Texas  Ranger 
touched  his  arm.  "There's  somethin'  doin'  up  yon- 
der, Cap."  •  * 

"Keep  the  boys  together,"  ordered  the  sheriff. 
"This  fire  was  started  to  draw  us  out.  Tell  the  boys 
to  get  their  horses." 

Dawn  was  breaking  when  the  cowboys  gathered 
in  the  vacant  lot  and  mounted  their  horses.  In  the 
clear  light  they  could  see  a  mob  in  the  distance;  a 
mob  that  moved  from  the  east  toward  the  court- 
house. The  sheriff  dispatched  a  man  to  wire  for 
troops,  divided  his  force  in  halves,  and,  leading  one 
contingent,  he  rode  toward  the  oncoming  mob.  The 
other  half  of  the  posse,  led  by  an  old  Ranger,  swung 
round  to  a  back  street  and  halted. 

The  shadows  of  the  buildings  grew  shorter.  A 
cowboy  on  a  restive  pony  asked  what  they  were 
waiting  for.  Some  one  laughed. 

The  old  Ranger  turned  in  his  saddle.  "It's  a  right 
lovely  mornin',"  he  remarked  impersonally,  tugging 
at  his  silver-gray  mustache. 

Suddenly  the  waiting  riders  stiffened  in  their  sad- 

323 


Tang  of  Life 

dies.  A  ripple  of  shots  sounded,  followed  by  the 
shrill  cowboy  yell.  Still  the  old  Ranger  sat  his  horse, 
coolly  surveying  his  men. 

"Don't  we  get  a  look-in?"  queried  a  cowboy. 

"Poco  tiempo,"  said  the  Ranger  softly. 

The  sheriff  bunched  his  men  as  he  approached  the 
invaders.  Within  fifty  yards  of  their  front  he  halted 
and  held  up  his  hand.  Massed  in  a  solid  wall  from 
curb  to  curb,  the  I.W.W.  jeered  and  shouted  as  he 
tried  to  speak.  A  parley  was  impossible.  The  va- 
grants were  most  of  them  drunk. 

The  sheriff  turned  to  the  man  nearest  him. 

"Tell  the  boys  that  we'll  go  through,  turn,  and  ride 
back.  Tell  them  not  to  fire  a  shot  until  we  turn." 

As  he  gathered  his  horse  under  him,  the  sheriff's 
arm  dropped.  The  shrill "  Yip !  Yip ! "  of  the  range  rose 
above  the  thunder  of  hoofs  as  twenty  ponies  jumped 
to  a  run.  The  living  thunder-bolt  tore  through  the 
mass.  The  staccato  crack  of  guns  sounded  sharply 
above  the  deeper  roar  of  the  mob.  The  ragged  path- 
way closed  again  as  the  riders  swung  round,  bunched, 
and  launched  at  the  mass  from  the  rear.  Those  who 
had  turned  to  face  the  second  charge  were  crowded 
back  as  the  cowboys,  with  guns  going,  ate  into  the 
yelling  crowd.  The  mob  turned,  and  like  a  great, 
black  wave  swept  down  the  street  and  into  the  court- 
house square. 

The  cowboys  raced  past,  and  reined  in  a  block  be- 
low the  court-house.  As  they  paused  to  reload,  a 

324 


A  Squared  Account 

riderless  horse,  badly  wounded,  plunged  among  them. 
A  cowboy  caught  the  horse  and  shot  it.  Another 
rider,  gripping  his  shirt  above  his  abdomen,  writhed 
and  groaned,  begging  piteously  for  some  one  to  kill 
him.  Before  they  could  get  him  off  his  horse  he 
spurred  out,  and,  pulling  his  carbine  from  the  scab- 
bard, charged  into  the  mob,  in  the  square.  With  the 
lever  going  like  lightning,  he  bored  into  the  mob,  fired 
his  last  shot  in  the  face  of  a  man  that  had  caught  his 
horse's  bridle,  and  sank  to  the  ground.  Shattered  and 
torn  he  lay,  a  red  pulp  that  the  mob  trampled  into 
the  dust. 

The  upper  windows  of  the  court-house  filled  with 
figures.  An  irregular  fire  drove  the  cowboys  to  the 
shelter  of  a  side  street.  In  the  wide  doorway  of  the 
court-house  several  men  crouched  behind  a  blue-steel 
tripod.  Those  still  in  the  square  crowded  past  and 
into  the  building.  Behind  the  stone  pillars  of  the 
entrance,  guarded  by  a  machine  gun,  the  crazy  mob 
cheered  drunkenly  and  defied  the  guards  to  dislodge 
them. 

From  a  building  opposite  came  a  single  shot,  and 
the  group  round  the  machine  gun  lifted  one  of  their  fel- 
lows and  carried  him  back  into  the  building.  Again 
came  the  peremptory  snarl  of  a  carbine,  and  another 
figure  sank  in  the  doorway.  The  machine  gun  was 
dragged  back.  Its  muzzle  still  commanded  the  square, 
but  its  operators  were  now  shielded  by  an  angle  of  the 
entrance. 

325 


Tang  of  Life 

Back  on  the  side  street,  the  old  ex-Ranger  had  dif- 
ficulty in  restraining  his  men.  They  knew  by  the  num- 
ber of  shots  fired  that  some  of  their  companions  had 
gone  down. 

The  sheriff  was  about  to  call  for  volunteers  to  cap- 
ture the  machine  gun  when  a  white  handkerchief 
fluttered  from  an  upper  window  of  the  court-house. 
Almost  immediately  a  man  appeared  on  the  court- 
house steps,  alone  and  indicating  by  his  gestures 
that  he  wished  to  parley  with  the  guard.  The  sheriff 
dismounted  and  stepped  forward. 

One  of  his  men  checked  him.  "That 's  a  trap,  John. 
They  want  to  get  you,  special.  Don't  you  try  it." 

"It's  up  to  me,"  said  the  sheriff,  and  shaking  off 
the  other's  hand  he  strode  across  the  square. 

At  the  foot  of  the  steps  he  met  the  man.  The 
guard  saw  them  converse  for  a  brief  minute;  saw  the 
sheriff  shake  his  fist  in  the  other's  face  and  turn  to 
walk  back.  As  he  turned,  a  shot  from  an  upper  win- 
dow dropped  him  in  his  stride. 

The  cowboys  yelled  and  charged  across  the  square. 
The  machine  gun  stuttered  and  sprayed  a  fury  of 
slugs  that  cut  down  horses  and  riders.  A  cowboy, 
his  horse  shot  from  under  him,  sprang  up  the  steps 
and  dragged  the  machine  gun  into  the  open.  A  rain  of 
slugs  from  the  upper  windows  struck  him  down.  His 
companions  carried  him  back  to  cover.  The  machine 
gun  stood  in  the  square,  no  longer  a  menace,  yet  no 
one  dared  approach  it  from  either  side. 

BM 


A  Squared  Account 

When  the  old  Ranger,  who  had  orders  to  hold  his 
men  in  reserve,  heard  that  the  sheriff  had  been  shot 
down  under  a  flag  of  truce,  he  shook  his  head. 

"Three  men  could  'a'  stopped  that  gun  as  easy  as 
twenty,  and  saved  more  hosses.  Who  wants  to  take  a 
little  pasear  after  that  gun?" 

Several  of  his  men  volunteered. 

"I  only  need  two,"  he  said,  smiling.  "I  call  by 
guess.  Number  twenty-six,  number  thirty-eight,  and 
number  three." 

The  last  was  his  own  number. 

In  the  wide  hallway  and  massed  on  the  court- 
house stairs  the  mob  was  calling  out  to  recover  the 
gun.  Beyond  control  of  their  leaders,  crazed  with 
drink  and  killing,  they  surged  forward,  quarreling, 
and  shoved  from  behind  by  those  above. 

"We're  ridin',"  said  the  old  Ranger. 

With  a  man  on  each  side  of  him  he  charged  across 
the  square. 

Waco,  peering  from  behind  a  stone  column  in  the 
entrance,  saw  that  Lorry  was  one  of  the  riders.  Lorry's 
lips  were  drawn  tight.  His  face  was  pale,  but  his  gun 
arm  swung  up  and  down  with  the  regularity  of  a  ma- 
chine as  he  threw  shot  after  shot  into  the  black  tide 
that  welled  from  the  court-house  doorway.  A  man 
near  Waco  pulled  an  automatic  and  leveled  it.  Waco 
swung  his  arm  and  brained  the  man  with  an  empty 
whiskey  bottle.  He  threw  the  bottle  at  another  of  his 
fellows,  and,  stumbling  down  the  steps,  called  to 

327 


Tang  of  Life 

Lorry.  The  three  riders  paused  for  an  instant  as 
Waco  ran  forward.  The  riders  had  won  almost  to  the 
gun  when  Waco  stooped  and  jerked  it  round  and 
poured  a  withering  volley  into  the  close-packed  door- 
way. 

Back  in  the  side  street  the  leader  of  the  cowboys 
addressed  his  men. 

"We'll  leave  the  horses  here,"  he  said.  "Tex  went 
after  that  gun,  and  I  reckon  he's  got  it.  We'll  clean 
up  afoot." 

But  the  I.W.W.  had  had  enough.  Their  leaders  had 
told  them  that  with  the  machine  gun  they  could  clean 
up  the  town,  capture  the  court-house,  and  make  their 
own  terms.  They  had  captured  the  court-house,  but 
they  were  themselves  trapped.  One  of  their  own  num- 
ber had  planned  that  treachery.  And  they  knew  that 
those  lean,  bronzed  men  out  there  would  shoot  them 
down  from  room  to  room  as  mercilessly  as  they 
would  kill  coyotes. 

They  surrendered,  shuffling  out  and  down  the  slip- 
pery stone  steps.  Each  man  dropped  his  gun  in  the 
little  pile  that  grew  and  grew  until  the  old  Ranger 
shook  his  head,  pondering.  That  men  of  this  kind 
should  have  access  to  arms  and  ammunition  of  the 
latest  military  type  —  and  a  machine  gun.  What 
was  behind  it  all?  He  tried  to  reason  it  out  in  his  old- 
fashioned  way  even  as  the  trembling  horde  filed  past, 
cordoned  by  grim,  silent  cowboys. 

The  vagrants  were  escorted  out  of  town  in  a  body. 

323 


A  Squared  Account 

Fearful  of  the  hate  of  the  guard,  of  treachery  among 
themselves  and  of  the  townsfolk  in  other  places,  they 
tramped  across  the  hills,  followed  closely  by  the  stern- 
visaged  riders.  Several  miles  north  of  Sterling  they 
disbanded. 

When  a  company  of  infantrymen  arrived  in  Ster- 
ling they  found  several  cowboys  sluicing  down  the 
court-house  steps  with  water  hauled  laboriously  from 
the  river. 

The  captain  stated  that  he  would  take  charge  of 
things,  and  suggested  that  the  cowboys  take  a  rest. 

"That's  all  right,  Cap,"  said  a  puncher,  pointing 
toward  the  naked  flagstaff.  "But  we-all  would  ad- 
mire to  see  the  Stars  and  Stripes  floatin'  up  there  afore 
we  drift." 

"I'll  have  the  flag  run  up,"  said  the  captain. 

"That 's  all  right,  Cap.  But  you  don't  sabe  the  idee. 
These  here  steps  got  to  be  clean  afore  that  flag  goes  up." 

"And  they's  some  good  in  bein*  fat,"  said  Bud 
Shoop  as  he  met  Lorry  next  morning.  "The  army 
doc  just  put  a  plaster  on  my  arm  where  one  of  them 
automatic  pills  nicked  me.  Now,  if  I'd  been  lean  like 
you—" 

"Did  you  see  Waco?"  queried  Lorry. 

"Waco?  What 'sailin' you,  son?" 

"Nothin'.  It  was  Waco  went  down,  workin'  that 
machine  gun  against  his  own  crowd.  I  didn't  sabe 
that  at  first." 

•M 


Tang  of  Life 

"Him?  Did  n't  know  he  was  in  town." 

"I  did  n't,  either,  till  last  night.  He  sneaked  in  to 
tell  me  about  the  killin'  of  Pat.  Next  I  seen  him  was 
when  he  brained  a  fella  that  was  shootin'  at  me.  Then 
somehow  he  got  to  the  gun  —  and  you  know  the  rest." 

"Looks  like  he  was  crazy,"  suggested  Shoop. 

"I  don*  know  about  that.  I  got  to  him  before  he 
cashed  in.  He  pawed  around  like  he  could  n't  see,  I 
asked  what  I  could  do.  He  kind  of  braced  up  then. 
'That  you,  kid?'  he  says.  'They  didn't  get  you?' 
I  told  him  no.  'Then  I  reckon  we're  square,'  he  says. 
I  thought  he  was  gone,  but  he  reached  out  his  hand. 
Seems  he  could  n't  see.  'Would  you  mind  shakin' 
hands  with  a  bum?'  he  says.  I  did.  And  then  he  let 
go  my  hand.  He  was  done." 

"H'm!  And  him!  But  you  can't  always  tell. 
Sometimes  it  takes  a  bullet  placed  just  right,  and 
sometimes  religion,  and  sometimes  a  woman  to  make 
a  man  show  what's  in  him.  I  reckon  Waco  done  you 
a  good  turn  that  journey.  But  ain't  it  hard  luck  when 
a  fella  waits  till  he's  got  to  cross  over  afore  he  shows 
white?" 

"He  must  'a'  had  a  hunch  he  was  goin'  to  get  his," 
said  Lorry.  "Or  he  would  n't  chanced  sneakin'  into 
town  last  night.  When  do  we  go  north?" 

"To-morrow.  The  doc  says  the  sheriff  will  pull 
through.  He  sure  ought  to  get  the  benefit  of  the  big 
doubt.  There's  a  man  that  God  A'mighty  took  some 
trouble  in  makin'." 

330 


A  Squared  Account 

"  Well,  I  'm  mighty  glad  it 's  over.  I  don't  want  any 
more  like  this.  I  come  through  all  right,  but  this 
ain't  fightin';  it's  plumb  killin'  and  murder." 

"And  both  sides  thinks  so,"  said  Bud.  "And 
lemme  tell  you;  you  can  read  your  eyes  out  about 
peace  and  equality  and  fraternity,  but  they's  goin* 
to  be  killin'  in  this  here  world  just  as  long  as  they's 
fools  willin'  to  listen  to  other  fools  talk.  And  they's 
always  goin'  to  be  some  fools." 

"You  ain't  strong  on  socialism,  eh,  Bud?" 

"Socialism?  You  mean  when  all  men  is  born  fools 
and  equal?  Not  this  mawnin',  son.  I  got  all  I  can  do 
figurin'  out  my  own  trail." 


Chapter  XXIX 

Bud's  Conscience 

THOSE  riders  who  had  come  from  the  north- 
ern part  of  the  State  to  Sterling  were  given 
_  transportation  for  themselves  and  their 
horses  to  The  Junction.  From  there  they  rode  to 
their  respective  homes.  Among  them  were  Bud 
Shoop,  the  giant  sheepman,  and  Lorry,  who  seemed 
more  anxious  than  did  Shoop  to  stop  at  Stacey  on 
their  way  to  the  reserve. 

"Your  maw  don't  know  you  been  to  Sterling," 
Shoop  said  as  they  rode  toward  Stacey. 

"But  she  won't  care,  now  we're  back  again.  She'll 
find  out  some  time." 

"I'mwillin'  to  wait,"  said  Bud.  "I  got  you  into 
that  hocus.  But  I  had  no  more  idee  than  a  cat  that 
we  'd  bump  into  what  we  did.  They  was  a  time  when 
a  outfit  like  ours  could  'a'  kep'  peace  in  a  town  by 
just  bein'  there.  Things  are  changin'  —  fast.  If  the 
Gov'ment  don't  do  somethin'  about  allowin'  the 
scum  of  this  country  to  get  hold  of  guns  and  ca'tridges 
wholesale,  they 's  goin'  to  be  a  whole  lot  of  extra  book- 
keepin'  for  the  recordin'  angel.  I  tell  you  what,  son, 
allowin'  that  I  seen  enough  killin'  in  my  time  so  as 
just  seein'  it  don't  set  too  hard  on  my  chest,  that 
mess  down  to  Sterling  made  me  plumb  sick  to  my 

332 


Bud's  Conscience 

stummick.  I'm  wonderin'  what  would  'a'  happened 
if  Sterling  had  n't  made  that  fight  and  the  I.W. W.  had 
run  loose.  It  ain't  what  we  did.  That  had  to  be  did. 
But  it's  the  idee  that  decent  folks,  livin'  under  the 
American  flag,  has  got  to  shoot  their  way  back  to  the 
llaw,  like  we  done." 

"Mebby  the  law  ain't  right,"  suggested  Lorry. 

"Don't  you  get  that  idee,  son.  The  law  is  all  right. 
Mebby  it  ain't  handled  right  sometimes." 

"But  what  can  anybody  do  about  it?" 

"Trouble  is  that  folks  who  want  to  do  the  right 
thing  ain't  always  got  the  say.  Or  mebby  if  they 
have  got  the  say  they  leave  it  to  the  other  fella. 

"What  did  the  folks  in  Arizona  do  long  back  in 
eighty,  when  the  sheep  disease  got  bad.  First  off  they 
doctored  up  the  sick  sheep,  tryin'  to  save  'em.  That 
did  n't  work,  so  they  took  to  killin'  'em  to  save  the 
good  sheep.  But  the  disease  had  got  into  the  blood  of 
some  of  the  good  sheep.  Then  some  of  the  big  sheep- 
men got  busy.  Arizona  made  a  law  that  no  stock  was 
to  be  shipped  into  any  of  her  territory  without  bein' 
inspected.  That  helped  some.  But  inspectors  is  hu- 
man, and  some  sick  sheep  got  by. 

"Then  one  day  a  fella  that  had  some  brains  got 
up  in  the  State  House  and  spoke  for  the  shuttin'  out 
of  all  stock  until  the  disease  was  stomped  out.  You 
see,  that  disease  did  n't  start  in  this  here  country. 
But  who  downed  that  fella?  Why,  the  sheepmen 
themselves.  It  would  hurt  their  business.  And  the 

333 


Tang  of  Life 

funny  part  of  it  is  them  sheepmen  was  willin'  enough 
to  ship  sick  sheep  anywhere  they  could  sell  'em.  But 
some  States  was  wise.  California,  she  put  a  inspection 
tax  of  twenty-five  dollars  on  every  carload  of  stock 
enterin'  her  State  —  or  on  one  animal;  did  n't  make 
no  difference.  That  inspection  tax  had  to  be  paid  by 
the  shipper  of  the  stock,  as  I  said,  whether  he  shipped 
one  head  or  a  hundred.  And  the  stock  had  to  be 
inspected  before  loadin'." 

"You  mean  immigrants?"  queried  Lorry. 
"The  same.  The  gate  is  open  too  wide.  If  I  had 
the  handlin'  of  them  gates  I  would  shut  'em  for  ten 
years  and  kind  of  let  what  we  got  settle  down  and  get 
acquainted.  But  the  man  hirin'  cheap  labor  would  n't. 
He'll  take  anything  that  will  work  cheap,  and  the 
country  pays  the  difference,  like  we  done  down  to 
Sterling."  ' 

"You  mean  there  can't  be  cheap  labor?" 
"The  same.  Somebody's  got  to  pay." 
"Well,  Sterling  paid,"  said  Lorry,  "if  a  man's  life 
is  worth  anything." 

"Yes,  she  paid.  And  the  worst  part  of  the  whole 
business  is  that  the  men  what  paid  did  n't  owe  any- 
thing to  the  smelter  or  to  them  others.   They  just 
made  a  present  of  their  lives  to  this  here  country.  And 
the  country  ain't  goin'  to  even  say  '  thanks."' 
"You're  pretty  sore  about  it,  aren't  you,  Bud?" 
"I  be.   And  if  you  had  my  years  you'd  be  like- 
wise.   But  what's  worryin'  me  right  now  is  I'm 

334 


Bud's  Conscience 

wonderin'  what  your  maw '11  say  to  me  when  she 
finds  out." 

"You  can  say  we  been  south  on  business." 

"Yes,"  grunted  Bud,  "and  I  got  the  receipt  right 
here  on  my  left  wing." 

"Hurtin'  you  much?" 

"Just  enough  to  let  me  know  I'm  livin'  and  ain't 
ridin'  through  hell  shootin'  down  a  lot  of  pore,  drunk 
fools  that's  tryin'  to  run  the  oven.  And  them  kind 
would  kick  if  they  was  ridin'  in  hell  on  a  free  pass 
and  their  hotel  bills  paid.  But  over  there  is  the  hills, 
and  we  can  thank  God  A'mighty  for  the  high  trails 
and  the  open  country.  I  ain't  got  the  smell  of  that 
town  out  of  my  nose  yet." 

When  they  arrived  at  Stacey,  Lorry  learned  that  his 
father  had  recently  gone  to  the  ranch.  After  supper 
that  evening,  Mrs.  Adams  mentioned  the  strike.  The 
papers  printed  columns  of  the  awful  details;  outrages 
and  killings  beyond  the  thought  of  possibility.  And 
Mrs.  Adams  spoke  of  the  curious  circumstance  that 
the  men  who  put  down  the  lawlessness  were  unnamed; 
that  all  that  could  be  learned  of  them  was  that  there 
were  ranchers  and  cowmen  who  were  known  by  num- 
ber alone. 

"And  I'm  glad  that  you  did  n't  go  riding  off  down 
there,"  she  said  to  Lorry.  "The  paper  says  men  from 
all  over  the  State  volunteered." 

"So  am  I,"  said  Shoop  promptly.   "I  was  readin' 

335 


Tang  of  Life 

about  that  strike  when  we  was  over  to  The  Junction. 
Lorry  and  me  been  over  that  way  on  business.  I  seen 
that  that  young  fella,  number  thirty-eight,  was  one 
of  the  men  who  went  after  that  machine  gun." 

"How  do  you  know  that  he  was  a  young  man?" 
queried  Mrs.  Adams. 

"Why  —  er  —  only  a  young  fella  would  act  that 
foolish,  I  reckon.  You  say  Jim  is  feelin'  spry  ag'in?" 

"Oh,  much  better!  He's  lame  yet.  But  he  can 
ride." 

"That's  good." 

"And  did  you  see  that  the  paper  says  men  are  vol 
unteering  to  go  to  France?  I  wonder  what  will  hap* 
pen  next?" 

"I  dunno,"  said  Shoop  gravely.  "I  been  thinkin4 
about  that." 

"Well,  I  hope  Lorry  won't  think  that  he  has  to  gov 
Some  of  the  boys  in  town  are  talking  about  it." 

"It's  in  the  air,"  said  Shoop. 

"And  his  father  will  need  him  now.  Could  yow 
spare  him,  if  Jim  finds  he  can't  get  along  alone?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  laughed  Bud.  "I  reckon  I  need 
somebody  to  look  after  them  campers  up  to  my  old 
place." 

"Oh,  I  forgot  to  tell  you;  the  folks  that  were  here 
last  summer  stopped  by  on  their  way  to  Jason.  Mrs. 
Weston  and  her  girl.  They  said  they  were  going  to 
visit  Mr.  Bronson." 

"H'm!  Then  I  reckon  I  got  to  keep  Lorry.  Don't 

336 


Bud's  Conscience 

know  what  three  females  would  do  with  just  Bronson 
for  comp'ny.  He's  a-tickin'  at  that  writin'  machine 
of  his  most  all  day,  and  sometimes  nights.  It  must  be 
like  livin'  in  a  cave." 

"But  Dorothy  has  n't,"  said  Lorry. 

"That's  right!  My,  but  that  little  gal  has  built  up 
wonderful  since  she's  been  up  there!  Did  you  see  my 
watch?" 

"Why,  no!" 

"Some  style  to  that!"  And  Shoop  displayed  the 
new  watch  with  pride.  "And  here's  the  name  of  the 
lady  what  give  it  to  me." 

Lorry's  mother  examined  the  watch,  and  handed 
it  to  Lorry,  to  whom  the  news  of  the  gift  was  a  sur- 
prise. 

"But  she  did  n't  give  him  a  watch,"  said  Shoop, 
chuckling. 

Up  in  their  room  that  night,  Lorry  helped  Bud  out 
of  his  coat.  Shoop's  arm  was  stiff  and  sore. 

"And  your  mother  would  think  it  was  a  mighty 
queer  business,  if  she  knowed  this,"  said  Bud,  "OP 
who  that  number  thirty-eight  was  down  there." 

"You  sure  made  a  good  bluff,  Bud." 

"Mebby.  But  I  was  scared  to  death.  When  I  was 
talkin'  about  Sterling  so  free  and  easy,  and  your 
maw  mighty  near  ketched  me  that  time,  my  arm  was 
itchin'  like  hell-fire,  and  I  dassen  scratch  it.  I  never 
knowed  a  fella's  conscience  could  get  to  workin' 

337  % 


Tang  of  Life 

around  his  system  like  that.  Now,  if  it  was  my  laig, 
I  could  'a'  scratched  it  with  my  other  foot  under  the 
table.  Say,  but  you  sure  showed  red  in  your  face 
when  your  maw  said  them  Weston  folks  was  up  to 
the  camp." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know." 

"Well,  I  do.  Here,  hook  onto  your  Uncle  Bud'a 
boot.  I'm  set:  go  ahead  and  pull.  You  can't  do 
nothin'  but  shake  the  buildin'.  Say,  what  does 
Bronson  call  his  gal  'Peter  Pan'  for?" 

"Why,  it's  a  kind  of  foreign  name,"  flashed  Lorry. 
"And  it  sounds  all  right  when  you  say  it  right.  You 
said  it  like  the  'pan'  was  settin'  a  mile  off." 

"Well,  you  need  n't  to  get  mad." 


Chapter  XXX 

In  the  Hills 

LORRY'S  return  to  the  mountains  was  some- 
what of  a  disappointment  to  his  expectations. 
Dorothy  had  greeted  him  quite  casually  and 
naturally  enough,  in  that  she  knew  nothing  of  his 
recent  venture.  He  was  again  introduced  to  Mrs. 
Weston  and  her  daughter.  For  the  first  time  Dorothy 
heard  of  the  automobile  accident  and  Lorry's  share 
in  the  subsequent  proceedings.  She  asked  Lorry  why 
he  had  not  told  her  that  he  knew  the  Westons.  He 
had  no  reply  save  "Oh,  I  don't  know,"  which  rather 
piqued  Dorothy.  He  was  usually  definite  and  frank. 

The  Westons  occupied  Bronson's  cabin  with  Dor- 
othy. Bronson  pitched  a  tent,  moved  his  belong- 
ings into  it,  and  declared  himself,  jokingly,  free  from 
Dorothy's  immediate  tyranny. 

Dorothy,  busy  in  the  kitchen,  asked  her  father  to 
invite  Lorry  to  dinner  that  evening.  Through  a  sort 
of  youthful  perverseness  not  unmixed  with  bucolic 
pride,  Lorry  declined  the  invitation.  He  would  be 
busy  making  ready  for  another  trip  in  the  hills.  He 
had  already  planned  his  own  evening  meal.  He  appre- 
ciated the  invitation,  but  they  could  get  along  with- 
out him.  These  excuses  satisfied  Bronson.  Lorry's 

339 


Tang  of  Life 

real  reason  for  declining  was  that  Dorothy  had  not 
invited  him  in  person.  He  knew  it,  and  felt  ashamed 
of  himself.  What  reason  had  he  to  expect  her  to  invite 
him  personally,  except  that  she  had  almost  invariably 
done  so  heretofore?  And  back  of  this  was  the  subtle 
jealousy  of  caste.  The  Westons  were  "her  kind  of 
folks."  He  was  not  really  one  of  them.  Boyishly  he 
fancied  that  he  would  do  as  a  companion  when  there 
was  no  one  else  available.  He  was  very  much  in  love 
with  Dorothy  and  did  not  realize  it. 

And  Dorothy  was  disappointed  in  him.  She  had 
wanted  the  Westons  to  know  what  a  really  fine  fellow 
he  was. 

Alice  Weston  at  once  recalled  Lorry's  attitude 
toward  her  on  a  former  occasion  when  he  had  been 
tacitly  invited  to  go  with  them  to  the  Horseshoe  Hills 
and  he  had  stayed  at  the  hotel.  She  told  Dorothy 
that  Mr.  Adams  was  not  to  be  taken  too  seriously. 
After  all,  he  was  nothing  more  than  a  boy,  and  per- 
haps he  would  feel  better,  having  declined  to  risk 
possible  embarrassment  at  their  table. 

Dorothy  was  inwardly  furious  on  the  instant,  but 
she  checked  herself.  What  did  Alice  Weston  know 
about  Lorry?  Well,  Alice  knew  that  he  was  a  good- 
looking  young  savage  who  seemed  quite  satisfied  with 
himself.  She  thought  that  possibly  she  could  tame 
him  if  she  cared  to  try.  Dorothy,  with  feminine  gra- 
ciousness,  dared  Alice  to  invite  Lorry  to  the  dinner. 
Alice  was  to  know  nothing  of  his  having  declined  an 

340 


In  the  Hills 

earlier  invitation.  Greatly  to  Dorothy's  surprise, 
Alice  Weston  accepted  the  challenge. 

She  waited  until  just  before  the  dinner  hour.  Lorry 
was  mending  a  pack-saddle  when  she  came  to  his 
cabin.  He  dropped  his  work  and  stood  up. 

"I  have  been  thinking  about  that  tramp  you 
arrested,"  she  began.  "And  I  think  you  were  right 
in  what  you  did." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  stammered  Lorry. 

Her  manner  had  been  especially  gracious. 

"And  I  did  n't  have  a  chance  to  say  good-bye  — 
that  time"  —  and  she  smiled  —  "when  you  rode  off 
waving  your  scarf  —  " 

"It  was  a  leg  of  lamb,"  corrected  Lorry. 

"Well,  you  waved  it  very  gracefully.  What  big, 
strong  arms!  They  don't  look  so  big  when  your 
sleeves  are  down." 

Lorry  promptly  rolled  down  his  sleeves.  He  felt 
that  he  had  to  do  something. 

"And  there  is  so  much  to  talk  about  I  hardly  know 
where  to  begin.  Oh,  yes!  Thank  you  so  much  for 


repairing  our  car. 
"That  was  nothin'." 


"It  meant  a  great  deal  to  us.  Is  that  your  horse  — 
the  one  standing  alone  over  there?" 

"Yes,  ma'am.  That's  Gray  Leg." 

"I  remember  him.  I  could  n't  ever  forget  that 
morning  —  but  I  don't  want  to  hinder  your  work. 
I  see  you  are  mending  something." 

341 


Tang  of  Life 

"Just  fittin'  a  new  pad  to  this  pack-saddle.  I  was 
figurin'  to  light  out  to-morrow." 

"So  soon?  That's  too  bad.  But,  then,  we  can  visit 
at  dinner  this  evening.  Dorothy  said  she  expected 
you.  I  believe  it  is  almost  ready." 

"I  don't  know,  Miss  Weston.  It's  like  this  — " 

"And  I  know  Mr.  Bronson  meant  to  ask  you.  H*» 
has  been  quite  busy.  Perhaps  he  forgot." 

"He—" 

"So  I  am  here  as  ambassador.  Will  I  do?" 

"Why,  sure!  But—" 

"And  mother  would  be  so  disappointed  if  you 
did  n't  come.  So  should  I,  especially  as  you  are  leav- 
ing to-morrow.  What  is  it  they  say  in  Mexico, 
'Adios'?  I  must  run  back." 

She  proffered  her  hand  gracefully.  Lorry  shook 
hands  with  her.  She  gave  his  fingers  a  little,  lingering 
squeeze  that  set  his  pulses  racing.  She  was  a  mighty 
pretty  girl. 

"We  shall  expect  you,"  she  called,  halfway  to  the 
cabin. 

And  she  sure  could  change  a  fellow's  mind  for  him 
without  half  trying.  She  had  n't  given  him  a  chance 
to  refuse  her  invitation.  She  just  knew  that  he  was 
coming  to  supper.  And  so  did  he. 

Alice  Weston  held  Lorry's  attention  from  the  be- 
ginning, as  she  had  intended.  She  was  gowned  in  some 
pale-green  material  touched  here  and  there  with  a 
film  of  lace.  Lorry  was  fascinated  by  her  full,  rounded 


In  the  Hills 

arms,  her  beautifully  strong  wrists,  and  by  the  way 
in  which  she  had  arranged  her  heavy,  dark  hair.  In 
the  daylight  that  afternoon  he  had  noticed  that  her 
eyes  were  blue.  He  had  thought  them  brown.  But 
they  were  the  color  of  wood  violets  untouched  by  the 
sun.  While  she  lacked  the  positive  outdoor  coloring 
of  Dorothy,  her  complexion  was  radiant  with  youth 
and  health.  Lorry  felt  subdued,  disinclined  to  talk 
despite  Dorothy's  obvious  attempts  to  be  entertain- 
ing. He  realized  that  Dorothy  was  being  exceedingly 
nice  to  him,  although  he  knew  that  she  was  a  little 
high-strung  and  nervous  that  evening. 

After  dinner  Bronson  and  Lorry  smoked  out  on  the 
veranda.  When  the  others  came  out,  Bronson  sug- 
gested that  they  have  some  music.  Lorry  promptly 
invited  them  to  his  cabin. 

"Alice  plays  wonderfully,"  said  Dorothy. 

Bronson,  talking  with  Mrs.  Weston,  enjoyed  him- 
self. He  had  been  isolated  so  long  that  news  from  the 
"outside"  interested  him. 

Lorry,  gravely  attentive  to  the  playing,  happened 
to  glance  up.  Dorothy  was  gazing  at  him  with  a  most 
peculiar  expression.  He  flushed.  He  had  not  realized 
that  he  had  been  staring  at  Alice  Weston;  at  her 
round,  white  throat  and  graceful  arms.  But  just  then 
she  ceased  playing. 

"Have  you  any  music  that  you  would  like?"  she 
asked  Lorry. 

"There's  some  here.  I  don't  know  what  it's  like, 

343 


Tang  of  Life 

Some  songs  and  dances   the  boys  fetched  up  for 
Bud." 

"What  fun!"  said  Alice.  "And  what  an  assort- 
ment! Shall  we  try  this?" 

And  she  began  to  play  a  flimsy  tune  printed  on  & 
flimsy  sheet  that  doubled  and  slid  to  the  keys.  Lorry 
jumped  up,  spread  it  out,  and  stood  holding  a  corner 
of  it  while  she  played.  Close  to  her,  he  was  sensible 
of  a  desire  to  caress  her  hair,  to  kiss  her  vivid  lips  as 
she  glanced  up  at  him  and  smiled.  He  had  no  idea 
then  that  she  was  deliberately  enthralling  him  with 
every  grace  she  possessed. 

The  fact  that  she  rather  liked  him  made  her 
subtleties  all  the  more  potent.  It  flattered  her  to 
see  the  frank  admiration  in  his  gray  eyes.  She 
knew  he  was  anything  but  "soft,"  which  made  the 
game  all  the  more  alluring.  He  was  to  leave  soon 
—  to-morrow.  Meanwhile,  she  determined  that  he 
should  remember  her. 

Late  that  evening  Bronson  and  the  others  said 
good-night.  Alice,  not  Dorothy,  asked  Lorry 
when  he  was  to  leave.  His  "some  time  to-morrow" 
sounded  unnaturally  indefinite. 

He  was  standing  in  the  doorway  of  his  camp  as  the 
others  entered  Bronson's  cabin.  Alice  Weston  was 
the  last  to  enter.  For  an  instant  she  stood  in  the 
lamplight  that  floated  through  the  doorway,  looking 
back  toward  him.  Impulsively  he  waved  good-night. 
Her  attitude  had  seemed  to  call  for  it.  He  saw  her 

344 


In  the  Hills 

fingers  flash  to  her  lips.  She  tilted  her  chin  and  threw 
him  a  kiss. 

"Dog-gone  the  luck!"  he  growled  as  he  entered 
his  cabin.  And  with  the  brief  expletive  he  condemned 
his  disloyalty  to  the  sprightly,  slender  Dorothy; 
the  Peter  Pan  of  the  Blue  Mesa;  the  dream  girl  of 
that  idle  noon  at  the  Big  Spring.  The  other  girl  — 
well,  she  was  just  playing  with  him. 

In  view  of  Lorry's  training  and  natural  careful- 
ness it  was  especially  significant  that  he  decided  next 
day  that  he  had  forgotten  to  lay  in  enough  supplies 
for  his  journey  south.  He  would  ride  to  Jason  and 
pack  in  what  he  needed.  He  had  a  fair  excuse.  Bron- 
son  had  recently  borrowed  some  of  his  canned  pro- 
visions. He  was  well  on  his  way  to  Jason  that  morn- 
ing before  the  others  had  arisen. 

He  was  back  at  the  camp  shortly  after  nine  that 
night.  As  he  passed  Bronson's  cabin  he  saw  a  light 
in  the  window.  Mrs.  Weston  was  talking  with 
Dorothy.  Lorry  had  hoped  to  catch  a  glimpse  of 
Alice  Weston.  He  had  been  hoping  all  that  day  that 
he  would  see  her  again  before  he  left.  Perhaps  she 
was  asleep. 

As  he  passed  the  corral  a  greeting  came  from  the 
darkness:  — 

"Good-evening!  I  thought  you  had  gone." 

"I  —  I  did  n't  see  you,"  he  stammered. 

Alice  Weston  laughed  softly.    "Oh,  I  was   just 

345 


Tang  of  Life 

out  here  looking  at  the  stars.  It's  cooler  out  here. 
Then  you  changed  your  mind  about  going?" 

"Nope.  I  had  to  go  to  Jason  for  grub.  I'm  going 
to-morrow." 

"Oh,  I  see!  We  thought  you  had  gone." 

"Got  a  headache?"  queried  Lorry. 

Her  voice  had  been  so  unnaturally  low,  almost  sad. 

"No.  I  just  wanted  to  be  alone." 

Lorry  fumbled  in  his  pockets.  "I  got  the  mail," 
he  stated. 

"I'll  give  it  to  Mr.  Bronson." 

Lorry  leaned  down  and  gave  her  the  packet  of 
letters  and  papers. 

"Good-bye.  I  won't  see  you  in  the  mornin'." 

"We '11  miss  you." 

"Honest?" 

"Of  course!"  And  she  gave  him  her  hand. 

He  drew  his  foot  from  the  stirrup.  "Put  your 
foot  in  there,"  he  said,  still  holding  her  hand. 

"But  why?" 

"  'Cause  I'm  goin'  to  ride  off  with  you,  like  in 
books."  He  laughed,  but  his  laughter  was  tense  and 
unnatural. 

It  was  dark.  The  stars  shone  faintly.  The  air 
was  soft  with  a  subtle  fragrance;  the  fragrance  of 
sun-warmed  pine  that  the  night  had  stolen  from 
the  slumbering  woodlands.  She  slipped  her  foot  in 
the  wide  stirrup.  Half  laughing,  she  allowed  him 
to  draw  her  up.  She  felt  the  hard  strength  of  his 

346 


In  the  Hills 

arm,  and  was  thrilled.  She  had  not  meant  to  do  any* 
thing  like  this. 

"You  been  playin*  with  me,"  he  told  her,  whis* 
pering,  "and  I  take  my  pay." 

She  turned  her  face  away,  but  he  found  her  lips 
and  crushed  her  to  him. 

"Oh!"  she  whispered  as  he  kissed  her  again  and 
again. 

Slowly  his  arm  relaxed.  White-faced  and  trem- 
bling, she  slid  to  the  ground  and  stood  looking  up  at 
him. 

"I  hate  you!"  she  said. 

"No,  you  don't,"  said  Lorry  quite  cheerfully. 

And  he  reached  out  his  hand  as  though  to  take  her 
hand  again. 

She  stood  still,  making  no  effort  to  avoid  him. 
Then —  "No,  please!"  she  begged. 

Lorry  sat  for  a  moment  looking  down  at  her. 
There  had  been  no  make-believe  on  her  part  when 
he  held  her  in  his  arms.  He  knew  that.  And  now? 
She  had  said  that  she  hated  him.  Perhaps  she  did 
for  having  made  her  do  that  which  she  had  never 
dreamed  of  doing.  But  he  told  himself  that  he  could 
stand  a  whole  lot  of  that  kind  of  hate.  And  did  he 
really  care  for  her?  Could  a  girl  give  what  she  had 
given  and  forget  on  the  morrow?  He  would  never 
forget. 

She  had  told  herself  that  he  should  have  reason 
to  remember  her. 

347 


Tang  of  Life 

After  he  had  gone  she  stood  gazing  across  the 
starlit  mesa.  She  heard  Lorry  whistling  cheerily  as 
he  unsaddled  his  pony.  A  falling  star  flamed  and 
faded  across  the  night. 


Chapter  XXXI 

In  the  Pines 

ALICE  WESTON  pleaded  headache  next 
morning.  She  did  not  get  up  until  noon. 
Meanwhile  Dorothy  came,  bringing  hot 
coffee  and  toast. 

"Does  it  really  hurt?"  queried  Dorothy.  "Or 
is  it  one  of  those  headaches  that  is  always  going  to 
hurt,  but  never  does?" 

Alice  smiled  and  sipped  her  coffee.  "Oh,  it's  not 
bad.  I  want  to  rest.  Perhaps  it's  the  altitude." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Dorothy.   "I'm  sorry,  Alice." 

They  chatted  awhile.  Suddenly  Alice  thought  of 
the  letters  Lorry  had  given  her.  She  had  carried 
them  to  her  room,  and  had  forgotten  them. 

"Mr.  Adams  left  some  mail  with  me  last  night. 
I  happened  to  be  outside  when  he  rode  past." 

"Why,  I  thought  he  had  gone!" 

"He  said  he  had  to  go  to  Jason  for  something  or 
other.  He  left  early  this  morning,  I  think." 

Dorothy  glanced  at  the  mail.  "All  for  daddy  — 
except  this  circular.  H'm!  'Intelligent  clothing  for 
Intelligent  People.'  Is  n't  that  awful?  How  in  the 
world  do  such  firms  get  one's  address  when  one 

349 


Tang  of  Life 

lives  Vay  up  here  in  the  sky.  Do  you  ever  get  ad- 
vertisements like  this?" 

"Oh,  yes;  heaps  of  them." 

"Well,  your  gowns  are  beautiful,"  sighed  Dorothy. 

"You  are  a  darling,"  said  Alice,  caressing  Doro- 
thy's cheek. 

"So  are  you,  dear."  And  Dorothy  kissed  her. 
"And  you  coaxed  Lorry  to  come  to  dinner,  after  all! 
I  don't  know  what  made  him  so  grumpy,  though. 
I  would  have  been  sorry  if  he  had  n't  come  to  din- 
ner, even  if  he  was  grumpy." 

"Do  you  like  him?"  queried  Alice. 

"Of  course;  he  has  been  so  nice  to  us.  Don't 
you?" 

Alice's  lips  trembled.  Suddenly  she  hid  her  face 
in  her  hands  and  burst  into  tears. 

"Why,  Alice,  what  is  the  matter?" 

"Nothing,"  she  sobbed.  "I'm  just  tired  —  of 
everything." 

"It  must  be  the  altitude,"  said  Dorothy  gravely. 
"Father  says  it  does  make  some  persons  nervous. 
Just  rest,  Allie,  and  I'll  come  in  again." 

Without  telling  her  father  anything  further  than 
that  she  was  going  for  a  ride,  Dorothy  saddled  Chin- 
ook. 

Dorothy  was  exceedingly  trustful,  but  she  was 
not  at  all  stupid.  She  thought  she  understood  Alice's 
headache.  And  while  Dorothy  did  not  dream  that 
her  friend  cared  anything  for  Lorry,  she  was  not  so 

350 


In  the  Pines 

sure  that  Lorry  did  not  care  for  Alice.  Perhaps  he 
had  said  something  to  her.  Perhaps  they  had  be- 
come rather  well  acquainted  in  Stacey  last  sum- 
mer. 

Dorothy  rode  toward  the  Big  Spring.  She  had 
no  definite  object  in  view  other  than  to  be  alone.  She 
was  hurt  by  Lorry's  incomprehensible  manner  of 
leaving.  What  had  she  done  to  cause  him  to  act  so 
strangely?  And  why  had  he  refused  her  invitation 
and  accepted  it  again  through  Alice?  "But  I'll 
never,  never  let  him  know  that  I  care  about  that," 
she  thought.  "And  when  he  comes  back  everything 
will  be  all  right  again." 

Just  before  she  reached  the  Big  Spring  her  pony 
nickered.  She  imagined  she  could  see  a  horse  stand- 
ing back  of  the  trees  round  the  spring.  Some  ranger 
returning  to  Jason  or  some  cattle  outfit  from  the 
south  was  camped  at  the  spring.  But  when  Chinook 
nickered  again  and  the  other  pony  answered,  she 
knew  at  once  that  Lorry  was  there.  Why  had  he 
stopped  at  the  spring?  He  had  started  early  enough 
to  have  made  a  camp  farther  on. 

Lorry  saw  her  coming,  and  busied  himself  adjust- 
ing one  of  the  packs.  As  she  rode  up  he  turned  and 
took  off  his  hat.  His  face  was  flushed.  His  eyes  did 
not  meet  hers  as  she  greeted  him. 

"I  did  n't  look  for  you  to  ride  up  here,"  he  said 
lamely. 

"And  I  did  n't  expect  to  find  you  here,"  she  said 

351 


Tang  of  Life 

as  she  dismounted.  She  walked  straight  to  him. 
"Lorry,  what  is  the  matter?  You're  not  like  my 
ranger  man  at  all!  Are  you  in  trouble?" 

Her  question,  so  frank  and  sincere,  and  the  deep 
solicitude  in  her  troubled  eyes  hurt  him,  and  yet 
he  was  glad  to  feel  that  hot  pain  in  his  throat.  He 
knew  now  that  he  cared  for  her  more  than  for  any 
living  being;  beyond  all  thought  of  passion  or  of 
selfishness.  She  looked  and  seemed  like  a  beautiful 
boy,  with  all  the  frankness  of  true  comradeship  in 
her  attitude  and  manner.  And  she  was  troubled  be- 
cause of  him  —  and  not  for  herself.  Lorry  thought 
of  the  other  girl.  He  had  taken  his  pay.  His  lips 
burned  dry  as  he  recalled  that  moment  when  he  had 
held  her  in  his  arms. 

Dorothy  saw  the  dull  pain  in  his  eyes,  a  sort  of 
dumb  pleading  for  forgiveness  for  something  he  had 
done;  she  could  not  imagine  what.  He  dropped  to 
his  knee,  and  taking  her  slender  hand  in  his  kissed 
her  fingers. 

"Don't  be  silly,"  she  said,  yet  her  free  hand  ca- 
ressed his  hair.  "What  is  it,  ranger  man?" 

"I  been  a  regular  dam'  fool,  Dorothy." 

"But,  Lorry!  You  know  —  if  there  is  anything, 
anything  in  the  world  that  I  can  do —  Please, 
please  don't  cry.  If  you  were  to  do  that  I  think  I 
should  die.  I  could  n't  stand  it.  You  make  me 
afraid.  What  is  it?  Surely  it  is  not  —  Alice?" 

He  crushed  her  fingers.    Suddenly  he  stood  up 

352 


In  the  Pines 

and  stepped  back.  The  sunlight  shone  on  his  bared 
head.  He  looked  very  boyish  as  he  shrugged  his 
shoulders  as  though  to  free  himself  from  an  invisible 
hand  that  oppressed  and  irritated  him.  His  sense  of 
fair  play  in  so  far  as  Alice  Weston  was  concerned 
would  not  allow  him  to  actually  regret  that  affair. 
To  him  that  had  been  a  sort  of  conquest.  But  shame 
and  repentance  for  having  been  disloyal  to  Dorothy 
were  stamped  so  clearly  upon  his  features  that  she 
understood.  She  knew  what  he  was  about  to  say, 
and  checked  him. 

"Don't  tell  me,"  she  said  gently.  "You  have  told 
me.  I  know  Alice  is  attractive;  she  can't  help  that. 
If  you  care  for  her  — " 

"Care  for  her!  She  was  playin'  with  me.  When 
I  found  out  that—" 

Dorothy  caught  her  breath.  Her  eyes  grew  big. 
She  had  not  thought  that  Alice  Weston  —  But  then 
that  did  not  matter  now.  Lorry  was  so  abjectly 
sorry  about  something  or  other.  He  felt  her  hand 
on  his  sleeve.  She  was  smiling.  "You're  just  a  great 
big,  silly  boy,  ranger  man.  I'm  really  years  older 
than  you.  Please  don't  tell  me  anything.  I  don't 
want  to  know.  I  just  want  you  to  be  happy." 

"Happy?  And  you  say  that!" 

"Of  course!" 

"Well,  mebby  I  could  be  happy  if  you  was  to  set 
to  and  walk  all  over  me." 

"Oh,  but  that  would  n't  do  any  good.    Tell  me 

353 


Tang  of  Life 

why  you  stopped  here  at  the  spring.  You  did  n't 
expect  to  meet  any  one,  did  you?" 

"I  —  stopped  here  —  because  we  camped  here 
that  time." 

"Well,  Lorry,  it's  really  foolish  of  you  to  feel  so 
badly  when  there's  nothing  the  matter.  If  you 
wanted  to  kiss  Alice  and  she  let  you  —  why,  that 
is  n't  wrong.  A  boy  kissed  me  once  when  I  was  going 
to  school  in  the  East.  I  just  boxed  his  ears  and 
laughed  at  him.  It  is  only  when  you  act  grumpy  or 
feel  badly  that  I  worry  about  you.  I  just  want  to 
be  your  little  mother  then  —  and  try  to  help  you." 

"You  make  me  feel  like  I  was  n't  fit  to  ever  touch 
your  hand  again,"  he  told  her. 

"But  you  must  n't  feel  that  way,"  she  said  cheerily. 
"I  want  you  to  be  brave  and  strong  and  happy;  just 
as  you  were  that  day  we  camped  here.  And  you  will, 
won't  you?" 

"Yes,  ma'am.   I'm  takin'  orders  from  you." 

"But  you  must  n't  wait  for  me  to  tell  you.  Just 
be  yourself,  and  then  I  know  you  will  never  be 
ashamed  of  anything  you  do.  I  must  go  now.  Good- 
bye, Lorry." 

She  gave  her  hand,  and  he  drew  her  to  him.  But  she 
turned  her  face  away  as  he  bent  his  head  above  her. 

"No;  not  now,  Lorry.  I  —  can't.    Please  don't." 

"I  —  guess  you're  right.  I  reckon  you  showed  me 
just  where  I  stand.  Yes,  you're  plumb  right  about 
it,  Dorothy.  But  I'm  comin'  back  — " 

354 


In  the  Pines 

"I'll  wait  for  you,"  she  said  softly. 

He  turned  briskly  to  the  ponies.  The  pack-horses 
plodded  up  the  trail  as  he  mounted  Gray  Leg  and  rode 
over  to  her. 

She  reached  up  and  patted  Gray  Leg's  nose. 
"Good-bye,  everybody!"  she  chirruped.  And  she 
kissed  Gray  Leg's  nose. 

Back  in  the  ranges,  far  from  the  Big  Spring,  Lorry 
made  his  camp  that  night.  As  he  hobbled  the  horses 
he  talked  to  them  affectionately  after  his  manner 
when  alone  with  them. 

"And  you,  you  old  trail-hitter,"  he  said  to  Gray 
Leg,  "I  reckon  you  think  you're  some  ladies'  man, 
don't  you?  Well,  you  got  a  right  to  be  proud.  Step 
along  there,  and  'tend  to  your  grazin'  and  don't  go 
to  rubbin'  noses  with  the  other  horses.  You're  a  fool 
if  you  do." 


Chapter  XXXII 

Politics 

THE  week  following  Lorry's  departure  the 
Westons  left  for  the  East.  As  for  Dorothy, 
she  confessed  to  herself  that  she  was  not 
sorry.  While  Alice  had  been  unusually  nice  to  every 
one,  Dorothy  felt  that  Alice  was  forcing  herself  to 
appear  natural  and  happy.  Mrs.  Weston  knew  this, 
and  wondered  what  the  cause  could  be.  Mrs.  Weston 
had  found  Dorothy  delightful  and  Bronson  interest- 
ing, but  she  had  been  so  long  in  the  West  that  its 
novelty  had  worn  thin.  She  did  not  regret  it  when 
they  shipped  their  machine  from  Stacey  and  took  the 
Overland  for  New  York. 

A  few  days  after  they  had  gone,  Bud  Shoop  rode 
up  to  the  Blue  Mesa.  It  was  evident  that  he  wanted 
to  talk  with  Bronson,  so  Dorothy  coaxed  Bondsman 
to  her  favorite  tree,  and  sat  stroking  his  shaggy  head 
as  she  read  from  a  new  book  that  Shoop  had  brought 
with  the  mail. 

The  genial  Bud  was  in  a  fix.  Perhaps  Bronson,  who 
had  been  a  newspaper  man  and  knew  something  about 
politics,  could  help  him  out.  Bronson  disclaimed  any 
special  keenness  of  political  intelligence,  but  said  he 
would  be  glad  to  do  anything  he  could  for  Shoop. 

356 


Politics 

"It's  like  this,"  Bud  began,  seating  himself  on  the 
edge  of  the  veranda;  "John  Torrance,  who  was  super- 
visor before  you  came  in,  got  me  this  job  and  put  it 
up  to  me  to  stick.  Now,  I  like  John,  and  I  figure  John 
ain't  scared  of  me.  But  here's  where  I  lose  the  trail. 
A  ole  friend,  the  biggest  shipper  of  sheep  in  this  State, 
goes  and  gets  it  into  his  head  that  they's  a  State  Sen- 
ator over  there  drawin'  down  pay  that  ought  to  come 
to  me.  Recollec',  I  said  he  was  a  sheepman  —  and 
I  been  for  the  longhorns  all  my  days.  And  he's  got 
the  nerve  to  tell  me  that  all  the  sheepmen  in  this  here 
county  are  strong  for  me  if  I  run  for  the  job.  If  I 
did  n't  know  him  like  I  know  this  here  right  hand,  I 
would  say  he  was  gettin'  hardenin'  of  the  brain  in  his 
ole  aige.  But  he's  a  long  ways  from  havin'  his  head 
examined  yet. 

"Then  along  comes  a  representative  of  the  Cattle- 
men's Association  and  says  they  want  me  to  run  for 
State  Senator.  Then  along  comes  a  committee  of 
hay-tossers  from  up  around  St.  Johns  and  says, 
polite,  that  they  are  waitin'  my  pleasure  in  the  mat- 
ter of  framin'  up  their  ticket  for  senatorial  candidate 
from  this  mesa  country.  They  say  that  the  present 
encumbrance  in  the  senatorial  chair  is  such  a  dog- 
gone thief  that  he  steals  from  hisself  just  to  keep  in 
practice.  1  don't  say  so.  'Course,  if  I  can  get  to  a 
chair  that  looks  big  and  easy,  without  stompin'  on 
anybody  —  why,  I  'm  like  to  set  down.  But  if  I 
can't,  I  figure  to  set  where  I  be. 

357 


Tang  of  Life 

"Now,  this  here  war  talk  is  gettin'  folks  excited. 
And  ridin'  excitement  down  the  trail  of  politics  is 
like  tryin'  to  ride  white  lightnin'  bareback.  It's  like 
to  leave  you  so  your  friends  can't  tell  what  you  looked 
like.  And  somebody  that  ain't  got  brains  enough  to 
plug  the  hole  hi  a  watch-key  has  been  talkin'  around 
that  Bud  Shoop  is  a  fighter,  with  a  record  for  gettin' 
what  he  goes  after.  And  that  this  same  Bud  Shoop 
is  as  honest  as  the  day  is  long.  Now,  I  've  seen  some 
mighty  short  days  when  I  was  tradin'  hosses.  And 
then  this  here  stingin'  lizard  goes  to  work  and  digs 
up  my  deputy  number  over  to  Sterling  and  sets  the 
papers  to  printin'  as  how  it  was  me,  with  the  help  of 
a  few  parties  whose  names  are  of  no  special  int'rest, 
settled  that  strike." 

"So  you  were  at  Sterling?" 

"Uh-uh.  Between  you  and  me,  I  was.  And  it 
wa'n't  what  you  'd  call  a  girl's  school  for  boys,  neither. 
But  that's  done.  What  I'm  gettin'  at  is:  If  I  resign 
here,  after  givin'  my  word  to  Torrance  to  stick,  it 
looks  like  I  been  playin'  with  one  hand  under  the 
table.  The  papers  will  lie  like  hell  boostin'  me,  and 
if  I  don't  lie  like  hell,  boostin'  myself,  folks  '11  think 
I  'm  a  liar,  anyhow.  Now,  takin'  such  folks  one  at  a 
time,  out  back  of  the  store,  mebby,  where  they  ain't 
no  wimmin-folks,  I  reckon  I  could  make  'em  think 
different.  But  I  can't  lick  the  county.  I  ain't  no  an- 
gel. I  never  found  that  tellin'  the  truth  kep'  me  awake 
nights.  And  I  sleep  pretty  good.  Now,  I  writ  to  Tor- 

358 


Politics 

ranee,  tellin'  him  just  how  things  was  headed.  What 
do  you  think  he  writ  back?" 

"  Why,  he  told  you  to  go  ahead  and  win,  did  n't  he?  " 

"Yep.  And  he  said  that  it  was  apparent  that  the 
State  needed  my  services  more  than  the  Service  did. 
That's  somethin'  like  a  train  with  a  engine  on  each 
end.  You  don't  know  which  way  it's  headed." 

"I'd  take  it  as  a  sincere  compliment." 

"Well,  I  did  swell  up  some.  Then  I  says  to  myself: 
'Bud,  you  ain't  no  fancy  office  man,  and  even  if  you 
are  doin'  good  work  here,  you  can't  put  it  in  writin* 
for  them  big  bugs  at  Washington.'  Mebby  John  is  so 
dog-gone  busy  —  like  the  fella  with  both  hands  full 
and  his  suspenders  broke  —  that  he  'd  be  glad  to  get 
behind  'most  anything  to  get  shut  of  me." 

"I  think  you're  mistaken.  You  know  you  can't 
keep  a  born  politician  out  of  politics." 

"Meanin'me?" 

"You 're  the  type." 

"By  gravy,  Bronson!  I  never  seen  you  hidin' 
your  watch  when  I  come  up  to  visit  you  before." 

"See  here,  Shoop.  Why  don't  you  write  to  Tor- 
ranee  and  ask  him  point-blank  if  he  has  had  a  hand 
in  getting  you  nominated  for  Senator?  Torrance  is 
a  big  man  in  his  line,  and  he  probably  knows  what  he 
is  doing." 

Shoop  grinned.  "You  win  the  pot!"  he  exclaimed. 
"That's  just  what  I  been  thinkin'  right  along.  I 
kind  of  wanted  somebody  who  was  n't  interested  in 

359 


Tang  of  Life 

this  deal  to  say  it.  Well,  I  reckon  I  bothered  you 
long  enough.  You  got  your  alfalfa  to  —  I  —  you  got 
your  writin'  to  do.  But  they's  one  thing.  If  I  get 
roped  in  and  got  to  run,  and  some  new  supervisor 
comes  botherin'  around  up  here,  puttin'  some  ranger 
in  my  camp  that  ain't  like  Lorry,  all  you  got  to  do  is 
to  move  over  into  my  cabin  and  tell  'em  to  keep  off 
the  grass.  That  there  four  hundred  and  eighty  is 
mine.  I  homesteaded  it,  and  I  got  the  papers.  It 
ain't  on  the  reserve." 

"I  thought  it  was." 

"So  do  some  yet.  Nope.  I'm  just  east  of  the  res- 
ervation line;  outside  the  reserve.  I  aimed  to  know 
what  I  was  doin'  when  I  homesteaded  that  piece  of 
sky  farm." 

"And  yet  you  took  exception  to  my  calling  you 
a  born  politician." 

Shoop  chuckled.  "Speakin'  personal,  I  been 
thinkin'  about  that  job  of  State  Senator  for  quite  a 
spell.  Now,  I  reckon  you  got  sense  enough  not  to  get 
mad  when  I  tell  you  that  I  just  been  tryin'  out  a  lit- 
tle speech  I  framed  up  for  my  constituents.  Just  a 
kind  of  little  alfalfa-seed  talk.  Outside  of  ijuts  and 
Mexicans,  it's  about  what  I  aim  to  hand  to  the  voters 
of  this  here  district,  puttin'  it  up  to  them  that  I  was 
roped  into  this  hocus  and  been  settin'  back  on  the 
rope  right  along.  And  that's  a  fact.  But  you  got  to 
rub  some  folks'  noses  in  a  fact  afore  they  can  even 
smell  it." 

360 


Politics 

"And  you  have  the  nerve  to  tell  me  that  you  framed 
up  all  that  stuff  to  get  my  sympathy?  Shoop,  you  are 
wasting  time  in  Arizona.  Go  East.  And  forgive  me 
for  falling  for  your  most  natural  appeal." 

The  genial  Bud  chuckled  and  wiped  his  eyes. 
"But  it's  true  from  the  start  to  the  wire." 

"I  must  congratulate  you."  And,  "Dorothy!" 
called  Bronson.  "Come  and  shake  hands  with  our 
next  Senator  from  the  mesa  country." 

"Really?"  exclaimed  Dorothy.  "But  we  will  lose 
our  supervisor.  Still,  I  think  Mr.  Shoop  will  make  a 
lovely  Senator.  You  are  just  the  right  size  —  and  — 
everything." 

"I  reckon  you're  right,  missy.  Half  of  the  game  is 
lookin'  the  part  afore  election.  The  other  half  is  not 
sayin'  too  much  after  election.  If  any  man  gets  a 
promise  out  of  me  afore  election,  it'll  have  to  be  did 
with  a  stump-puller." 

"But  we  won't  see  you  any  more,"  said  Dorothy. 
"You  will  be  so  busy  and  so  important.  Senator 
Shoop  will  speak  here.  And  Senator  Shoop  will  speak 
there.  And  — let  me  see!  Oh,  yes!  The  Senate  ad- 
journed after  a  stormy  session  in  which  the  Sena- 
tor from  Mesa  County,  supported  by  an  intelligent 
majority,  passed  his  bill  for  the  appropriation  of 
twenty  thousand  dollars  to  build  a  road  from  Jason 
to  the  Blue  Mesa.  What  fun!" 

Bud  polished  his  bald  head.  "Now,  I  reckon  that 
ain't  such  a  joke.  We'll  build  a  road  plumb  through 

361 


Tang  of  Life 

to  the  old  Apache  Trail  and  ketch  them  tourists 
goin'  into  Phoenix." 

"You  see,"  said  Dorothy,  turning  to  her  father, 
"I  know  something  about  politics.  I  read  the  local 
papers.  Mr.  Shoop's  name  is  in  every  one  of  them. 
I  read  that  article  about  the  Sterling  strike.  I  have 
been  wondering  — " 

Shoop  immediately  called  attention  to  Bondsman, 
who  was  gently  tugging  at  the  supervisor's  pants  leg. 

"Now,  look  at  that!  Do  you  know  what  he's  tellin' 
me?  He's  tellin'  me  I  got  a  piano  in  that  there  cabin 
and  we  ain't  had  a  duet  for  quite  a  spell.  That  there 
dog  bosses  me  around  somethin'  scandalous." 

Bondsman  slipped  from  beneath  Dorothy's  hand 
as  she  stooped  to  pat  him.  He  trotted  to  Shoop's 
cabin,  and  stood  looking  up  at  the  door. 

"Would  you  be  playin'  'Annie  Laurie'  for  us?" 
queried  Shoop. 

Dorothy  played  for  them,  unaccompanied  by 
Bondsman.  Shoop  shook  his  head.  Either  the  tune 
had  lost  its  charm  for  the  Airedale  or  else  Dorothy's 
interpretation  differed  from  Bud's  own. 

"  Thanks,  missy,"  said  Shoop  when  she  had  fin- 
ished playing.  "Guess  I'll  be  movin'  along." 

"Oh,  no!  You'll  stay  to-night.  I'll  play  for  you. 
Make  him  stay,  father." 

"I  wish  you  would,  Shoop.  I'd  like  to  talk  with 
you  about  the  election." 

"Well,  now,  that's  right  neighborly  of  you  folks. 

362 


Politics 

I  was  aimin'  to  ride  back  this  evening.  But  I  reckon 
we'll  stay.    Bondsman  and  me  ain't  so  spry  as  we 


was." 


After  supper  Dorothy  played  for  them  again,  with 
no  light  except  the  dancing  red  shadows  from  the  pine 
logs  that  flamed  in  the  fireplace. 

Shoop  thanked  her.  "I'll  be  livin'  in  town,"  — 
and  he  sighed  heavily,  —  "where  my  kind  of  piano- 
playin'  would  bring  the  law  on  me,  most-like.  Now, 
that  ole  piano  is  hacked  up  some  outside,  but  she's 
got  all  her  innards  yet  and  her  heart's  right.  If  you 
would  be  takin'  it  as  a  kind  of  birthday  present,  it's 
yours." 

"You  don't  mean  me  ?" 

"I  sure  do." 

"But  I  could  n't  accept  such  a  big  present.  And 
then,  when  we  go  away  this  winter — " 

"Listen  to  your  Uncle  Bud,  missy.  A  little  lady 
give  me  a  watch  onct.  'T  wa'n't  a  big  watch,  but  it 
was  a  big  thing.  'Cause  why?  'Cause  that  little  lady 
was  the  first  lady  to  give  me  a  present  in  my  life.  I 
was  raised  up  by  men-folks.  My  mammy  she  wa'n't 
there  long  after  I  come.  Reckon  that's  why  I  never 
was  much  of  a  hand  with  wimmin-folks.  I  wa'n't 
used  to  'em.  And  I  don't  care  how  old  and  ornery 
a  man  is;  the  first  time  he  gets  a  present  from  a  gal, 
it  kind  of  hits  him  where  he  breathes.  And  if  it  don't 
make  him  feel  warm  inside  and  mighty  proud  of  bein' 
who  he  is,  why,  it's  because  he's  so  dog-gone  old  he 

363 


Tang  of  Life 

can't  think.  I  ain't  tellin'  no  secret  when  I  say  that 
the  little  lady  put  her  name  in  that  watch  alongside  of 
mine.  And  her  name  bein'  there  is  what  makes  that 
present  a  big  thing  —  bigger  than  any  piano  that  was 
ever  built. 

"Why,  just  a  spell  ago  I  was  settin'  in  my  office, 
madder 'n  a  cat  what  had  tore  his  Sunday  pants, 
'cause  at  twelve  o'clock  I  was  goin'  over  to  the  saloon 
to  fire  that  young  ranger,  Lusk,  for  gettin'  drunk.  I 
pulled  out  this  here  watch,  and  I  says  to  myself: 
'Bud,  it  was  clost  around  twelve  o'clock  by  a  young 
fella's  watch  onct  when  he  was  filled  up  on  liquor  and 
rampin'  round  town  when  he  ought  to  been  to  work. 
And  it  was  the  ole  foreman's  gal  that  begged  that 
boy's  job  back  for  him,  askin'  her  daddy  to  give  him 
another  chanct.'  And  the  boy  he  come  through  all 
right.  I  know  —  for  I  owned  the  watch.  And  so  I 
give  Lusk  another  chanct." 

Dorothy  stepped  to  Shoop's  chair,  and,  stoop- 
ing quickly,  kissed  his  cheek.  Bondsman,  not  to  be 
outdone,  leaped  jealously  into  Bud's  lap  and  licked 
the  supervisor's  face.  Shoop  spluttered,  and  thrust 
Bondsman  down. 

"Things  is  comin'  too  fast!"  he  cried,  wiping  his 
face.  "I  was  just  goin'  to  say  something  when  that 
dog  just  up  and  took  the  words  right  out  of  my 
mouth.  Oh,  yes!  I  was  just  wishin'  I  owned  a  piano 
factory." 


Chapter  XXXIII 

The  Fires  of  Home 

BUD  SHOOP  read  the  newspaper  notice  twice 
before  he  realized  fully  its  import.  The 
Adams  House  at  Stacey  was  for  sale.  "Then 
Jim  and  Annie 's  patched  it  up,"  he  soliloquized.  And 
the  genial  Bud  did  not  refer  to  the  Adams  House. 

Because  his  master  seemed  pleased,  Bondsman 
waited  to  hear  the  rest  of  it  with  head  cocked  side- 
ways and  tail  at  a  stiff  angle. 

"That's  all  they  is  to  it,"  said  Shoop. 

Bondsman  lay  down  and  yawned.  He  was  growing 
old.  It  was  only  Bud's  voice  that  could  key  the  big 
Airedale  up  to  his  earlier  alertness.  The  office  was 
quiet.  The  clerk  had  gone  out  for  his  noon  meal.  The 
fall  sunshine  slanted  lazily  through  the  front-office 
windows.  The  room  was  warm,  but  there  was  a  tang 
of  autumn  in  the  air.  Shoop  glanced  at  the  paper 
again.  He  became  absorbed  in  an  article  proposing 
conscription.  He  shook  his  head  and  muttered  to 
himself.  He  turned  the  page,  and  glanced  at  the  live- 
stock reports,  the  copper  market,  railroad  stocks,  and 
passed  on  to  an  article  having  to  do  with  local 
politics. 

Bondsman,  who  constituted  himself  the  guard  of 
Snoop's  leisure,  rapped  the  floor  with  his  tail.  Shoop 

365 


Tang  of  Life 

glanced  over  the  top  of  his  paper  as  light  footsteps 
sounded  in  the  outer  office.  Dorothy  tapped  on  the 
lintel  and  stepped  in.  Shoop  crumpled  the  paper  and 
rose.  Bondsman  was  at  her  side  as  she  shook  hands 
with  the  supervisor. 

"My  new  saddle  came,"  she  said,  patting  Bonds- 
man. "And  father's  latest  book.  Why  don't  you 
cheer?" 

"Goodness,  missy!  I  started  cheerin*  inside  the 
minute  I  seen  you.  Now,  I  reckon  you  just  had  to 
have  that  new  saddle." 

"It's  at  the  store.  Father  is  over  there  talking 
politics  and  war  with  Mr.  Handley." 

"Then  you  just  set  down  and  tell  your  Uncle  Bud 
the  news  while  you're  waitin'." 

"But  I  am  not  waiting.  I  am  visiting  you.  And  I 
told  you  the  news." 

"And  to  think  a  new  saddle  could  make  your 
eyes  shine  like  that!  Ain't  you  'shamed  to  fool  your 
Uncle  Bud?" 

"I  have  n't  —  if  you  say  you  know  I  have." 

"'Course.  Most  any  little  gal  can  get  the  best  of 
me." 

"Well,  because  you  are  so  curious  —  Lorry  is 
back." 

"I  reckoned  that  was  it." 

"He  rode  part- way  down  with  us.  He  has  gone 
to  see  his  father." 

"And  forgot  to  repo't  here  first." 

866 


The  Fires  of  Home 

"No.  He  gave  me  the  reports  to  give  to  you. 
Here  they  are.  One  of  Mr.  Waring's  men,  that  young 
Mexican,  rode  up  to  the  mesa  last  week  and  left  word 
that  Lorry's  father  wanted  to  see  him." 

"I  aim  to  know  about  that,"  chuckled  Shoop. 
And  he  smoothed  out  the  paper  and  pointed  to  the 
Adams  House  sale  notice. 

"The  Adams  House  for  sale?  Why  — " 

"Jim  and  Annie  —  that's  Jim  Waring  and  Mrs. 
Waring  now  —  are  goin'  to  run  the  ranch.  I'm 
mighty  glad." 

"Oh,  I  see !  And  Lorry  is  really  Laurence  Waring?" 

"You  bet!  And  I  reckon  Lorry '11  be  fo'man  of  that 
ranch  one  of  these  days.  Cattle  is  sky-high  and  goin' 
up.  I  don't  blame  him." 

"He  did  n't  say  a  word  about  that  to  me." 

"'Course  not.  He's  not  one  to  say  anything  till 
he's  plumb  sure." 

"He  might  have  said  something"  asserted  Dorothy. 

"Did  n't  he?"  chuckled  Shoop. 

Dorothy's  face  grew  rosy.  "Your  master  is  very 
inquisitive,"  she  told  Bondsman. 

"And  your  little  missy  is  right  beautiful  this 
mawnin',"  said  Shoop.  "Now,  if  I  was  a  bow-legged 
young  cow-puncher  with  curly  hair,  and  looked 
fierce  and  noble  and  could  make  a  gal's  eyes  shine 
like  stars  in  the  evenin',  I  reckon  I  would  n't  be 
sittin'  here  signin'  letters." 

"He  is  n't  bow-legged!"  flashed  Dorothy.  She  was 

367 


Tang  of  Life 

very  definite  about  that.  "And  he's  not  a  cowboy. 
He  is  a  ranger." 

"My  goodness!  I  done  put  my  foot  in  a  gopher 
hole  that  shake.  I  sure  am  standin'  on  my  head,  wait- 
in'  for  somebody  to  set  me  up  straight  ag'in.  You 
ain't  mad  at  your  Uncle  Bud,  be  you?" 

Dorothy  tossed  her  head,  but  her  eyes  twinkled, 
and  suddenly  she  laughed.  "You  know  I  like  you  — 
heaps!  You're  just  jealous." 

"Reckon  you  said  it!  But  I  only  got  one  ear  laid 
back  yet.  Wait  till  I  see  that  boy." 

"Oh,  pshaw!  You  can't  help  being  nice  to  him." 

"And  I  got  comp'ny." 

"But  really  I  want  to  talk  seriously,  if  you  will 
let  me.  Lorry  has  been  talking  about  enlisting.  He 
did  n't  say  that  he  was  going  to  enlist,  but  he  has 
been  talking  about  it  so  much.  Do  you  think  he  will?  " 

"Well,  now,  missy  that's  a  right  peart  question. 
I  know  if  I  was  his  age  I'd  go.  Most  any  fella  that 
can  read  would.  I  been  readin'  the  papers  for  two 
years,  and  b'ilin'  inside.  I  reckon  Lorry 's  just  woke 
up  to  what's  goin'  on.  We  been  kind  of  slow  wakin' 
up  out  here.  Folks  livin'  off  in  this  neck  of  the  woods 
gets  to  thinkin'  that  the  sun  rises  on  their  east-line 
fence  and  sets  on  their  west  line.  It  takes  somethin' 
strong  to  make  'em  recollec'  the  sun's  got  a  bigger 
job  'n  that.  But  I  admire  to  say  that  when  them  kind 
of  folks  gets  started  onct  they's  nothin'  ever  built 
that  '11  stop  'em.  If  I  get  elected  I  aim  to  tell  some 

368 


The  Fires  of  Home 

folks  over  to  the  State  House  about  this  here  war. 
And  I'm  goin'  to  start  by  talkin'  about  what  we 
got  to  set  straight  right  here  to  home  first.  They  can 
feel  what's  goin'  on  to  home.  It  ain't  all  print.  And 
they  got  to  feel  what's  goin'  on  over  there  afore  they 
do  anything." 

"It's  all  too  terrible  to  talk  about,"  said  Dorothy. 
"But  we  must  do  our  share,  if  only  to  keep  our  self- 
respect,  must  n't  we?" 

"You  said  it  —  providin'  we  got  any  self -respect 
to  keep." 

"But  why  don't  our  young  men  volunteer.  They 
are  not  cowards." 

"It  ain't  that.  Suppose  you  ask  Lorry  why." 

"I  should  n't  want  to  know  him  if  he  did  n't  go," 
said  Dorothy. 

"Missy,  I'm  lovin'  you  for  sayin*  that!  If  all  the 
mothers  and  sisters  and  sweethearts  was  like  that, 
they  would  n't  be  no  conscription.  But  they  ain't. 
I'm  no  hand  at  understandin'  wimmin-folks,  but  I 
know  the  mother  of  a  strappin'  young  fella  in  this 
town  that  says  she  would  sooner  see  her  boy  dead 
in  her  front  yard  than  for  him  to  go  off  and  fight  for 
foreigners.  She  don't  know  what  this  country's  got 
to  fight  for  pretty  quick  or  she  would  n't  talk  like 
that.  And  she  ain't  the  only  one.  Now,  when  wim- 
min  talks  that  way,  what  do  you  expect  of  men?  I 
reckon  the  big  trouble  is  that  most  folks  got  to  see 
somethin'  to  fight  afore  they  get  goin'.  Fightin'  for  a 

369 


Tang  of  Life 

principle  looks  just  like  poundin'  air  to  some  folks.  I 
don't  believe  in  shootin'  in  the  dark.  How  come,  I  've 
plugged  a  rattlesnake  by  just  shootin'  at  the  sound 
when  he  was  coiled  down  where  I  could  n't  see  him. 
But  this  ain't  no  kind  of  talk  for  you  to  listen  to, 
missy." 

"I  —  you  won't  say  that  I  spoke  of  Lorry?" 

"Bless  your  heart,  no!  And  he'll  figure  it  out  his- 
self.  But  don't  you  get  disap'inted  if  he  don't  go 
right  away.  It's  mighty  easy  to  set  back  and  say 
'Go!'  to  the  other  fella;  and  listen  to  the  band  and 
cheer  the  flag.  It  makes  a  fella  feel  so  durned  patri- 
otic he  is  like  to  forget  he  ain't  doin'  nothin'  hisself. 

"Now,  missy,  suppose  you  was  a  sprightin'  kind 
of  a  boy  'bout  nineteen  or  twenty,  and  mebby  some 
gal  thought  you  was  good-lookin'  enough  to  talk 
to  after  church  on  a  Sunday;  and  suppose  you  had 
rustled  like  a  little  nigger  when  you  was  a  kid, 
helpin'  your  ma  wash  dishes  in  a  hotel  and  chop 
wood  and  sweep  out  and  pack  heavy  valises  for  tour- 
ists and  fill  the  lamps  and  run  to  the  store  for  gro- 
ceries and  milk  a  cow  every  night  and  mornin'. 

"And  say  you  growed  up  without  breakin'  your 
laig  and  went  to  punchin'  cattle  and  earnin'  your  own 
money,  and  then  mebby  you  got  a  job  in  the  Ranger 
Service,  ridin'  the  high  trails  and  livin'  free  and  in- 
dependent; and  suppose  a  mighty  pretty  gal  was  to 
come  along  and  kind  of  let  you  take  a  shine  to  her,  and 
you  was  doin'  your  plumb  durndest  to  put  by  a  little 

370 


The  Fires  of  Home 

money,  aimin'  to  trot  in  double  harness  some  day; 
and  then  suppose  your  daddy  was  to  offer  you  a  half- 
interest  in  a  growin'  cattle  business,  where  you  could 
be  your  own  boss  and  put  by  a  couple  of  thousand  a 
year.  And  you  only  nineteen  or  twenty. 

"Suppose  you  had  been  doin'  all  that  when  along 
comes  word  from  'way  off  somewhere  that  folks  was 
killin'  each  other  and  it  was  up  to  you  to  stop  'em. 
Would  n't  you  do  some  hard  thinkin'  afore  you 
jumped  into  your  fightin'  clothes?" 

"But  this  war  means  more  than  that." 

"It  sure  does.  But  some  of  us  ain't  got  the  idee 
yet.  'Course  all  you  got  to  do  to  some  folks  is  to  say 
'Fight' and  they  come  a-runnin'.  And  some  of  that 
kind  make  mighty  good  soldier  boys.  But  the  fella 
I'm  leavin'  alone  is  the  one  what  cinches  up  slow 
afore  he  climbs  into  the  saddle.  When  he  goes  into 
a  fight  it 's  like  his  day's  work,  and  he  don't  waste 
no  talk  or  elbow  action  when  he's  workin'." 

"I  wish  I  were  a  man!" 

"Well,  some  of  us  is  right  glad  you  ain't.  A  good 
woman  can  do  just  as  much  for  this  country  right  now 
as  any  man.  And  I  don't  mean  by  dressin'  up  in 
fancy  clothes  and  givin'  dances  and  shellin'  out 
mebby  four  per  cent  of  the  gate  receipts  to  buy  a 
ambulance  with  her  name  on  it. 

"And  I  don't  mean  by  payin'  ten  dollars  for  a 
outfit  of  gold-plated  knittin'-needles  to  make  two- 
bit  socks  for  the  boys.  What  I  mean  is  that  a  good 

371 


Tang  of  Life 

woman  does  her  best  work  to  home;  mebby  just  by 
sayin'  the  right  word,  or  mebby  by  keepin'  still  or 
by  smilin'  cheerful  when  her  heart  is  breakin'  ae 
count  of  her  man  goin'  to  war. 

"You  can  say  all  you  like  about  patriotism,  but 
patriotism  ain't  just  marchin'  off  to  fight  for  your 
country.  It's  usin'  your  neighbors  and  your  country 
right  every  day  in  the  week,  includin'  Sunday.  Some 
folks  think  patriotism  is  buildin'  a  big  bonfire  once 
a  year  and  lettin'  her  blaze  up.  But  the  real  thing  is 
keepin'  your  own  little  fire  a-goin'  steady,  right  here 
where  you  live.  And  it's  thinkin'  of  that  little  fire 
to  home  that  makes  the  best  soldier. 

"He's  got  a  big  job  to  do.  He's  goin'  to  get  it 
done  so  he  can  go  back  to  that  there  home  and  find 
the  little  fire  a-burning  bright.  What  do  some  of  our 
boys  do  fightin'  alongside  of  them  Frenchmen  and 
under  the  French  flag,  when  they  get  wounded  and 
get  a  furlough?  Set  around  and  wait  to  go  back  to 
fightin'?  I  reckon  not.  Some  of  'em  pack  up  and 
come  four,  five  thousand  miles  just  to  see  their  folks 
for  mebby  two,  three  days.  And  when  they  see  them 
little  fires  to  home  a-burnin'  bright,  why,  they  say: 
'This  here  is  what  we're  fighting  for.'  And  they  go 
back,  askin'  God  A'mighty  to  keep  'em  f  acin'  straight 
to  the  front  till  the  job  is  done." 

Dorothy,  her  chin  in  her  hand,  gazed  at  Bud. 
She  had  never  known  him  to  be  so  intense,  so  earnest. 

"Oh,  I  know  it  is  so!"  she  cried.    "But  what  can 

372 


The  Fires  of  Home 

I  do?  I  have  only  a  little  money  in  the  bank,  and 
father  makes  just  enough  to  keep  us  comfortable. 
You  see,  we  spent  such  lots  of  money  for  those 
horrid  old  doctors  in  the  East,  who  did  n't  do  me  a 
bit  of  good." 

"You  been  doin'  your  share  just  gettin*  well  and 
strong,  which  is  savin'  money.  But  seein'  you  asked 
me,  you  can  do  a  whole  lot  if  Lorry  was  to  say 
anything  to  you  about  goin'.  And  you  know  how 
better 'n  I  can  tell  you  or  your  daddy  or  anybody." 

"But  Lorry  must  do  as  he  thinks  best.  We  —  we 
are  not  engaged." 

"'Course.  And  it  ain't  no  time  for  a  young  fella 
to  get  engaged  to  a  gal  and  tie  up  her  feelin's  and 
march  off  with  her  heart  in  his  pocket.  Mebby  some 
day  she 's  goin'  to  want  it  back  ag'in,  when  he  ain't 
livin'  to  fetch  it  back  to  her.  I  see,  by  the  Eastern 
papers  Torrance  has  been  sendin'  me,  that  some  young 
fellas  is  marryin'  just  afore  they  go  to  jine  the  French- 
men on  the  front.  Now,  what  are  some  of  them  gals 
goin'  to  do  if  their  boys  don't  come  back?  Or  mebby 
come  back  crippled  for  life?  Some  of  them  gals  is 
goin'  to  pay  a  mighty  high  price  for  just  a  few  days 
of  bein'  married.  It  riles  me  to  think  of  it." 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  it  —  as  you  do,"  said 
Dorothy. 

"Well,  I  hope  you'll  forgive  your  Uncle  Bud  for 
ragin'  and  rampin'  around  like  this.  I  can't  talk 
what's  in  my  heart  to  folks  around  here.  They're 

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Tang  of  Life 

mostly  narrow-gauge.  I  reckon  I  said  enough.  Let's 
go  look  at  that  new  saddle." 

"Is  n't  it  strange,"  said  Dorothy,  "that  I  could  n't 
talk  with  father  like  this?  He'd  be  nice,  of  course, 
but  he  would  be  thinking  of  just  me." 

"I  reckon  he  would.   And  mebby  some  of  Lorry." 

"If  Lorry  should  ask  me  about  his  going — " 

"Just  you  tell  him  that  you  think  one  volunteer  is 
worth  four  conscripts  any  time  and  any  place.  And 
if  that  ain't  a  hint  to  him  they's  somethin'  wrong 
with  his  ears." 

Shoop  rose  and  plodded  out  after  Dorothy. 
Bondsman  trailed  lazily  behind.  Because  Shoop 
had  not  picked  up  his  hat  the  big  dog  knew  that  his 
master's  errand,  whatever  it  was,  would  be  brief. 
Yet  Bondsman  followed,  stopping  to  yawn  and  stretch 
the  stiffness  of  age  from  his  shaggy  legs.  There  was 
really  no  sense  in  trotting  across  the  street  with  his 
master  just  to  trot  back  again  in  a  few  minutes.  But 
Bondsman's  unwavering  loyalty  to  his  master's  every 
mood  and  every  movement  had  become  such  a  mat- 
ter of  course  that  the  fine  example  was  lost  in  the 
monotony  of  repetition. 

A  dog's  loyalty  is  so  often  taken  for  granted  that 
it  ceases  to  be  noticeable  until  in  an  unlooked-for 
hazard  it  shines  forth  in  some  act  of  quick  heroism 
or  tireless  faithfulness  worthy  of  a  greater  tribute 
than  has  yet  been  written. 

Bondsman  was  a  good  soldier. 


Chapter  XXXIV 

Young  Life 

RAMON  was  busy  that  afternoon  transfer- 
ring mattresses  and  blankets  from  the  ranch- 
house  to  the  new,  low-roofed  bunk-house 
that  Waring  had  built.  Ramon  fitted  up  three  beds 
—  one  for  the  cook,  one  for  an  old  range-rider  that 
Waring  had  hired  when  his  men  had  left  to  enlist, 
and  one  for  himself. 

The  partitions  of  the  ranch-house  had  been  taken 
down,  the  interior  rearranged,  and  the  large  living- 
room  furnished  in  a  plain,  comfortable  way. 

As  Ramon  worked  he  sang  softly.  He  was  happy. 
The  senora  was  coming  to  live  with  them,  and  per- 
haps Senor  Jim's  son.  Senor  Jim  had  been  more  active 
of  late.  His  lameness  was  not  so  bad  as  it  had  been. 
It  was  true  the  Senor  Jim  did  not  often  smile,  but 
his  eyes  were  kindly. 

Ramon  worked  rapidly.  There  was  much  to  do  in 
the  other  house.  The  bale  of  Navajo  blankets  was 
still  unopened.  Perhaps  the  Senor  Jim  would  help  to 
arrange  them  in  the  big  room  with  the  stone  fireplace. 
The  senora  would  not  arrive  until  to-morrow,  but 
then  the  home  must  be  made  ready,  that  she  would 
find  it  beautiful.  And  Ramon,  accustomed  to  the 

375 


Tang  of  Life 

meagerly  furnished  adobes  of  old  Mexico,  thought 
that  the  ranch-house  was  beautiful  indeed. 

Waring  ate  with  the  men  in  the  new  bunk-house 
that  evening.  After  supper  he  went  over  to  the  larger 
building  and  sat  alone  in  the  living-room,  gazing  out 
of  the  western  window.  His  wounds  ached,  and  in 
the  memory  of  almost  forgotten  trails  he  grew  young 
again.  Again  in  Old  Mexico,  the  land  he  loved,  he  saw 
the  blue  crest  of  the  Sierras  rise  as  in  a  dream,  and 
below  the  ranges  a  tiny  Mexican  village  of  adobe  huts 
—  gold  in  the  setting  sun.  Between  him  and  the  vil- 
lage lay  the  outlands,  ever  mysterious,  ever  calling  to 
him.  Across  the  desert  ran  a  thin  trail  to  the  village. 
And  down  the  trail  the  light  feet  of  Romance  ran 
swiftly  as  he  followed.  He  could  even  recall  the  posi- 
tions of  the  different  adobes;  the  strings  of  chiles  dark 
red  in  the  twilight;  the  old  black-shawled  seiiora  who 
had  spoken  a  guttural  word  of  greeting  as  he  had 
ridden  up. 

Back  in  Sonora  men  had  said,  "Waring  has  made 
his  last  ride."  They  had  told  each  other  that  a  white 
man  was  a  fool  to  go  alone  into  that  country.  Per- 
haps he  had  been  a  fool.  But  the  thrill  of  those  early 
days,  when  he  rode  alone  and  free  and  men  sang  of 
him  from  Sonora  to  the  Sweetgrass  Hills!  And  on 
that  occasion  he  had  found  the  fugitive  he  sought,  yet 
he  had  ridden  back  to  Sonora  alone.  He  had  never 
forgotten  the  face  of  the  young  Mexican  woman  who 
had  pleaded  with  him  to  let  her  lover  go.  Her  eyes 

376 


Young  Life 

were  big  and  velvet  black.  Her  mouth  was  the  mouth 
of  a  Madonna. 

Waring  had  told  her  that  it  was  useless  to  plead. 
He  remembered  how  her  eyes  had  grown  dull  and 
sullen  at  his  word.  He  told  her  that  he  was  simply 
doing  his  duty.  She  had  turned  on  him  like  a  panther, 
her  little  knife  glittering  in  the  dusk  as  she  drove  it 
at  his  breast.  The  Mexican  lover  had  jerked  free 
and  was  running  toward  the  foothills.  Waring  re- 
called his  first  surprise  at  the  wiry  strength  of  her 
wrist  as  he  had  twisted  the  knife  from  her.  If  the 
Mexican  lover  had  not  turned  and  shot  at  him  — 
The  black  figure  of  the  Mexican  had  dropped  just 
where  the  road  entered  the  foothills.  The  light  had 
almost  gone.  The  vague  bulk  of  the  Sierras  wavered. 
Outlines  vanished,  leaving  a  sense  of  something 
gigantic,  invisible,  that  slumbered  in  the  night.  The 
stars  were  big  and  softly  brilliant  as  he  had  ridden 
north. 

The  old  wound  in  his  shoulder  ached.  The  Mexi- 
can had  made  a  good  shot  —  for  a  Mexican. 

Out  on  the  Arizona  mesa,  against  the  half  disk  of 
gold,  was  the  black  silhouette  of  a  horseman.  Waring 
stepped  to  the  doorway.  Ramon  was  seated  just 
outside  the  door,  smoking  a  cigarette.  The  southern 
stars  were  almost  visible.  Each  star  seemed  to  have 
found  its  place,  and  yet  no  star  could  be  seen. 

"It  is  Lorry,"  said  Ramon.   "He  has  ridden  far." 

Waring  smiled.     Fifty  miles  had  not  been   con- 

377 


Tang  of  Life 

sidered  a  big  day's  ride  in  his  time.  In  his  time  !  But 
his  day  was  past.  The  goddess  he  had  followed  had 
left  him  older  than  his  years,  crippled,  unable  to 
ride  more  than  a  few  hours  at  a  time;  had  left  him 
fettered  to  the  monotony  of  the  far  mesa  levels  and 
the  changeless  hills.  Was  this  his  punishment,  or 
simply  a  black  trick  of  fate,  that  the  tang  of  life 
had  evaporated,  leaving  a  stagnant  pool  wherein 
he  gazed  to  meet  the  blurred  reflection  of  a  face  weary 
with  waiting  for  —  what  end? 

Unused  to  physical  inactivity,  Waring  had  grown 
somber  of  mind  these  latter  days.  Despite  the 
promise  of  more  comfortable  years,  he  had  never 
felt  more  lonely.  With  the  coming  of  Lorry  the  old 
order  would  change.  Young  blood,  new  life  would 
have  its  way. 

The  sound  of  pattering  hoofs  grew  louder.  War- 
ing heard  the  old  familiar,  "Hi!  Yippy!  Yip!"  of  the 
range  rider.  Young  blood?  New  life?  It  was  his 
own  blood,  his  own  life  reincarnate  in  the  cheery  rider 
that  swung  down  and  grasped  his  hand.  Nothing 
had  changed.  Life  was  going  on  as  it  always  had. 

"Hello,  dad!  How's  the  leg?" 

Waring  smiled  in  the  dusk.  "Pretty  fair,  Lorry. 
You  did  n't  waste  any  time  getting  here." 

"Well,  not  much.  I  rode  down  with  Bronson  and 
Dorothy." 

"Do  you  call  her  'Dorothy'?" 

"Ever  since  she  calls  me  'Lorry/'3 

378 


Young  Life 

"Had  anything  to  eat?" 

"Nope.  I  cut  across.  How's  mother?" 

"She  will  be  here  to-morrow.  We  have  been  get- 
ting things  ready.  Let  Ramon  take  your  horse — " 

"Thanks.   I '11  fix  him  in  two  shakes." 

And  in  two  shakes  bridle  and  saddle  were  off,  and 
Gray  Leg  was  rolling  in  the  corral. 

While  Lorry  ate,  Ramon  laid  a  fire  in  the  big  stone 
fireplace.  After  supper  Lorry  and  his  father  sat 
gazing  at  the  flames.  Lorry  knew  why  he  had  been 
sent  for,  but  waited  for  his  father  to  speak. 

Presently  Waring  turned  to  him.  "I  sent  for  you 
because  I  need  some  one  to  help.  And  your  mother 
wants  you  here.  I  won't  urge  you,  but  I  can  offer  you 
Pat's  share  in  the  ranch.  I  bought  his  share  last 
week.  You'll  have  a  working  interest  besides  that. 
You  know  something  about  cattle.  Think  it  over." 

"That's  a  dandy  offer,"  said  Lorry.  "I'm  right 
obliged,  dad.  But  there's  something  else.  You  put 
your  proposition  straight,  and  I  'm  going  to  put  mine 
straight.  Now,  if  you  was  in  my  boots,  and  she  liked 
you  enough,  would  you  marry  her?" 

"You  have  n't  told  me  who  she  is." 

"Why  —  Dorothy  Bronson.  I  thought  you  knew." 

Waring  smiled.   "You're  pretty  young,  Lorry." 

"But  you  married  young,  dad." 

"Yes.  And  I  married  the  best  woman  in  the 
world.  But  I  can't  say  that  I  made  your  mother 
happy." 

379 


Tang  of  Life 

"I  guess  ma  never  cared  for  anybody  but  you," 
said  Lorry. 

"It  is  n't  just  the  caring  for  a  person,  Lorry." 

"Well,  I  thought  it  was.  But  I  reckon  you  know. 
And  Dorothy  is  the  prettiest  and  lovin'est  kind  of  a 
girl  you  ever  seen.  I  was  wishin'  you  was  acquainted." 

"I  should  like  to  meet  her.  Are  you  sure  she  is 
your  kind  of  girl,  Lorry?  Now,  wait  a  minute;  I  know 
how  you  feel.  A  girl  can  be  good-looking  and  mighty 
nice  and  think  a  lot  of  a  man,  and  yet  not  be  the 
right  girl  for  him." 

"But  how  is  he  goin'  to  find  that  out?" 

"If  he  must  find  out  —  by  marrying  her." 

"Then  I  aim  to  find  out,  if  she  is  willin'.  But  I 
wanted  to  tell  you  —  because  you  made  me  that 
offer.  I  was  askin'  your  advice  because  you  been 
through  a  lot." 

"I  wish  I  could  advise  you.  But  you're  a  man 
grown,  so  far  as  taking  care  of  yourself  is  concerned. 
And  when  a  man  thinks  of  getting  married  he  is  n't 
looking  for  advice  against  it.  Why  don't  you  wait 
a  year  or  two?" 

"Well,  mebbe  I  got  to.  Because  —  well,  I  did  n't 
ask  Dorothy  yet.  Then  there 's  somethin'  else.  A  lot 
of  the  fellas  up  in  the  high  country  have  enlisted  in  the 
regulars,  and  some  have  gone  over  to  Canada  to 
join  the  Foreign  Legion.  Now,  I  don't  want  to  be 
the  last  hombre  on  this  mesa  to  go." 

"There  has  been  no  call  for  men  by  the  Nation." 

380 


Young  Life 

"But  it's  comin',  dad.  Any  fella  can  see  that. 
I  kind  of  hate  to  wait  till  Uncle  Sam  says  I  got  to  go. 
I  don't  like  going  that  way." 

"What  do  you  think  your  mother  will  say?" 

"Gosh!  I  know!  That's  why  I  wanted  to  talk  to 
you  first.  If  I  'm  goin',  I  want  to  know  it  so  I  can  say 
to  her  that  I  am  goin'  and  not  that  I  aim  to  go." 

"Well,  you  will  have  to  decide  that." 

"Well,  I'm  goin'  to  —  before  ma  comes.  Dog- 
gone it!  You  know  how  it  is  tryin'  to  explain  things 
to  a  woman.  Wimmin  don't  understand  them  kind 
of  things." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,  Lorry." 

Lorry  nodded.  "I  tell  you,  dad  —  you  kind  of 
set  a  pace  for  me.  And  I  figure  I  don't  want  folks  to 
say:  *  There  goes  Jim  Waring's  boy.'  If  they're 
goin'  to  say  anything,  I  want  it  to  be:  *  There  goes 
Lorry  Waring.' " 

Waring  knew  that  kind  of  pride  if  he  knew  any- 
thing. He  was  proud  of  his  son.  And  Waring's 
most  difficult  task  was  to  keep  from  influencing  him 
in  any  way.  He  wanted  the  boy  to  feel  free  to  do  as 
he  thought  best. 

"You  were  in  that  fight  at  Sterling,"  said  War- 
ing, gesturing  toward  the  south. 

"But  that  was  different,"  said  Lorry.  "Them 
coyotes  was  pluggin'  at  us,  and  we  just  nacher- 
ally  had  to  let  'em  have  it.  And  besides  we  was  work- 
in'  for  the  law." 

381 


Tang  of  Life 

"I  understand  there  was  n't  any  law  in  Sterling 
about  that  time." 

"Well,  we  made  some,"  asserted  Lorry. 

"And  that's  just  what  this  war  means.  It's 
being  fought  to  make  law." 

"Then  I'm  for  the  law  every  time,  big  or  little. 
I  seen  enough  of  that  other  thing." 

"Think  it  over,  Lorry.  Remember,  you're  free 
to  do  as  you  want  to.  I  have  made  my  offer.  Then 
there  is  your  mother  —  and  the  girl.  It  looks  as 
though  you  had  your  hands  full." 

"You  bet!  Business  and  war  and  —  and  Dorothy 
is  a  right  big  order.  I  'm  gettin'  a  headache  thinkin' 
of  it!" 

Waring  rose.  "I'm  going  to  turn  in.  I  have  to 
live  pretty  close  to  the  clock  these  days." 

"See  you  in  the  mornin',"  said  Lorry,  giving  his 
hand.  "Good-night,  dad." 

"Good-night,  boy." 


Chapter  XXXV 

The  High  Trail 

BLACK-EDGED  against  the  silvery  light  of 
early  dawn  the  rim  of  the  world  lay  dotted 
with  far  buttes  and  faint  ranges  fading 
into  the  spaces  of  the  north  and  south.  The  light 
deepened  and  spread  to  a  great  crimson  pool,  tide- 
less  round  the  bases  of  magic  citadels  and  mighty 
towers.  Golden  minarets  thrust  their  slender,  fiery 
shafts  athwart  the  wide  pathway  of  the  ascending 
sun.  The  ruddy  glow  palpitated  like  a  live  ember 
naked  to  the  wind.  The  nearer  buttes  grew  boldly 
beautiful.  Slowly  their  molten  outlines  hardened  to 
rigid  bronze.  Like  ancient  castles  of  some  forgotten 
land,  isolated  in  the  vast  mesa,  empty  of  life,  they 
seemed  to  await  the  coming  of  a  host  that  would 
reshape  their  fallen  arches  and  their  wind-worn 
towers  to  old-time  splendor,  and  perfect  their 
imageries. 

But  the  marching  sun  knew  no  such  sentiment. 
Pitilessly  he  pierced  their  enchanted  walls,  discover- 
ing their  pretense,  burning  away  their  shadowy 
glory,  baring  them  for  what  they  were  —  masses  of 
jumbled  rock  and  splintered  spires;  rain-gutted 
wraiths  of  clay,  volcanic  rock,  the  tumbled  malpais 
and  the  tufa  of  the  kind. 

383 


Tang  of  Life 

Black  shadows  shifted.  That  which  had  been  the 
high-arched  entrance  to  a  mighty  fortress  was  now 
a  shallow  hollow  in  a  hill.  Here  and  there  on  the 
western  slope  of  the  mounds  cattle  grazed  in  the  chill 
morning  air.  Enchantments  of  the  dawn  reshaped 
themselves  to  local  landmarks. 

From  his  window  Lorry  could  discern  the  distant 
peak  of  Mount  Baldy  glimmering  above  the  purple 
sea  of  forest.  Not  far  below  the  peak  lay  the  viewless 
level  of  the  Blue  Mesa.  The  trail  ran  just  below  that 
patch  of  quaking  asp. 

The  hills  had  never  seemed  so  beautiful,  nor  had 
the  still  mesas,  carpeted  with  the  brown  stubble 
of  the  close-cropped  bunch-grass. 

Arizona  was  his  country  —  his  home.  And  yet 
he  had  heard  folk  say  that  Arizona  was  a  desert. 
But  then  such  folk  had  been  interested  chiefly  in 
guide-posts  of  the  highways  or  the  Overland  dining- 
car  menu. 

And  he  had  been  offered  a  fair  holding  in  this  land 
—  twenty  thousand  acres  under  fence  on  a  long-term 
lease;  a  half -interest  in  the  cattle  and  their  increase. 
He  would  be  his  own  man,  with  a  voice  in  the  man- 
agement and  sale  of  the  stock.  A  year  or  two  and  he 
could  afford  to  marry  —  if  Dorothy  would  have  him. 
He  thought  she  would.  And  to  keep  in  good  health 
she  must  always  live  in  the  West.  What  better  land 
than  Arizona,  on  the  high  mesa  where  the  air  was 
clean  and  clear;  where  the  keen  August  rains  re- 

384 


The  High  Trail 

freshed  the  sunburned  grasses;  where  the  light  snows 
of  winter  fell  but  to  vanish  in  the  retrieving  sun?  If 
Dorothy  loved  this  land,  why  should  she  leave  it? 
Surely  health  meant  more  to  her  than  the  streets  and 
homes  of  the  East? 

And  Lorry  had  asked  nothing  of  fortune  save  a 
chance  to  make  good.  And  fortune  had  been  more 
than  kind  to  him.  He  realized  that  it  was  through 
no  deliberate  effort  of  his  own  that  he  had  acquired 
the  opportunity  which  offered.  Why  not  take  advan- 
tage of  it?  It  would  give  him  prestige  with  Bron- 
son.  A  good  living,  a  good  home  for  her.  Such  luck 
did  n't  come  to  a  man's  door  every  day. 

He  had  slept  soundly  that  night,  despite  his  intent 
to  reason  with  himself.  It  was  morning,  and  he  had 
made  no  decision  —  or  so  he  thought.  There  was  the 
question  of  enlisting.  Many  of  his  friends  had  al- 
ready gone.  Older  men  were  now  riding  the  ranges. 
Even  the  clerk  in  the  general  store  at  Stacey's  had  vol- 
unteered. And  Lorry  had  considered  him  anything 
but  physically  competent  to  "make  a  fight."  But  it 
was  n't  all  in  making  a  fight.  It  was  setting  an  ex- 
ample of  loyalty  and  unselfishness  to  those  fellows 
who  needed  such  an  impulse  to  stir  them  to  action. 
Lorry  thought  clearly.  And  because  he  thought 
clearly  and  for  himself,  he  realized  that  he,  as  an 
individual  soldier  in  the  Great  War,  would  amount  to 
little;  but  he  knew  that  his  going  would  affect  others; 
that  the  mere  news  of  his  having  gone  would  react 

385 


Tang  of  Life 

as  a  sort  of  endless  chain  reaching  to  no  one  knew 
what  sequestered  home. 

And  this,  he  argued,  was  his  real  value:  the  spirit 
ever  more  potent  than  the  flesh.  Why,  he  had  heard 
men  joke  about  this  war!  It  was  a  long  way  from 
home.  What  difference  did  it  make  to  them  if  those 
people  over  there  were  being  starved,  outraged,  mur- 
dered? That  was  their  own  lookout.  Friends  of  his 
had  said  that  they  were  willing  to  fight  to  a  finish  if 
America  were  threatened  with  invasion,  but  that 
could  never  happen.  America  was  the  biggest  and 
richest  country  in  the  world.  She  attended  to  her 
own  business  and  asked  nothing  but  that  the  other 
nations  do  likewise. 

And  those  countries  over  there  were  attending  to 
their  own  business.  If  our  ships  were  blown  up,  it  was 
our  own  fault.  We  had  been  warned.  Anyway,  the 
men  who  owned  those  ships  were  out  to  make  money 
and  willing  to  take  a  chance.  It  was  n't  our  business 
to  mix  in.  We  had  troubles  enough  at  home.  As 
Lorry  pondered  the  shallow  truths  a  great  light  came 
to  him.  "Troubles  enough  at  home'9  that  was  it! 
America  had  already  been  invaded,  yet  men  slum- 
bered in  fancied  security.  He  had  been  at  Sterling  — 

Lorry  could  hear  Ramon  stirring  about  in  the 
kitchen.  The  rhythmically  muffled  sound  suggested 
the  mixing  of  flapjacks.  Lorry  could  smell  the  thin, 
appetizing  fragrance  of  coffee. 

With  characteristic  abruptness,  he  made  his  de- 

386 


The  High  Trail 

cision,  but  with  no  spoken  word,  no  gesture,  no  emo- 
tion. He  saw  a  long  day's  work  before  him.  He  would 
tackle  it  like  a  workman. 

And  immediately  he  felt  buoyantly  himself  again. 
The  matter  was  settled. 

He  washed  vigorously.  The  cold  water  brought  a 
ruddy  glow  to  his  face.  He  whistled  as  he  strode  to 
the  kitchen.  He  slapped  the  gentle-eyed  Ramon  on 
the  shoulder.  Pancake  batter  hissed  as  it  slopped  over 
on  the  stove. 

"Cheer  up,  amigo!"  he  cried!  "Had  a  good  look 
at  the  sun  this  mornin'  ?  " 

"No,  senor.   I  have  made  the  breakfast,  si." 

"Well,  she's  out  there,  shinin'  right  down  on 
Arizona." 

"The  sefiora?"  queried  Ramon,  puzzled. 

"No;  the  sun.  Don't  a  mornin'  like  this  make 
you  feel  like  jumpin'  clean  out  of  your  boots  and 
over  the  fence?" 

"Not  until  I  have  made  the  flapcake,  Senor 
Lorry." 

"Well,  go  the  limit.   Guess  I'll  roust  out  dad." 

Bud  Shoop  scowled,  perspired,  and  swore.  Bonds- 
man, close  to  Shoop's  chair,  blinked  and  lay  very 
still.  His  master  was  evidently  beyond  any  proffer 
of  sympathy  or  advice.  Yet  he  had  had  no  argument 
with  any  one  lately.  And  he  had  eaten  a  good  break- 
fast. Bondsman  knew  that.  Whatever  the  trouble 

387 


Tang  of  Life 

might  be,  his  master  had  not  consulted  him  about  it. 
It  was  evidently  a  matter  that  dogs  could  not  under- 
stand, and  hence,  very  grave.  Bondsman  Ikked  his 
chops  nervously.  He  wanted  to  go  out  and  lie  in  the 
sunshine,  but  he  could  not  do  that  while  his  master 
suffered  such  tribulation  of  soul.  His  place  was  close 
to  his  master  now,  if  ever. 

Around  Shoop  were  scattered  pieces  of  paper;  bits 
of  letters  written  and  torn  up. 

"  It 's  a  dam5  sight  worse  resignin'  than  makin*  out 
my  application  —  and  that  was  bad  enough,"  growled 
Shoop.  "But  I  got  to  do  this  personal.  This  here  pen 
is  like  a  rabbit  gone  loco.  Now,  here  I  set  like  a  bag  of 
beans,  tryin'  to  tell  John  Torrance  why  I'm  quittin* 
this  here  job  without  makin'  him  think  I'm  glad 
to  quit  —  which  I  am,  and  I  ain't.  It's  like  tryin'  to 
split  a  flea's  ear  with  a  axe;  it  can't  be  did  without 
mashin'  the  flea.  Now,  if  John  was  here  I  could  tell 
him  in  three  jumps.  The  man  that  invented  writin* 
must  'a'  been  tongue-tied  or  had  sore  throat  some 
time  when  he  wanted  to  talk  awful  bad.  My  lang- 
widge  ain't  broke  to  pull  no  city  rig  —  or  no  hearse. 
She 's  got  to  have  the  road  and  plenty  room  to  side- 
step. 

"Now,  how  would  I  say  it  if  John  were  here? 
Would  I  start  off  with  'Dear  John'  or  'Dear  Old 
Friend'?  I  reckon  not.  I'd  just  say:  'John,  I'm 
goin'  to  quit.  I  tried  to  do  by  you  what  I  said  I 
would.  I  got  a  chanct  to  bust  into  the  State  House, 

388 


The  High  Trail 

and  I  got  a  good  reason  for  bustin'  in.  I  been  nomi- 
nated for  Senator,  and  I  got  to  live  up  to  the  name. 
I'm  a-goin'  to  run  for  Senator  —  and  mebby  I'll 
keep  on  when  I  get  started,  and  end  up  somewhere 
in  Mexico.  I  can't  jine  the  reg'lars  account  of  my 
physical  expansibility  and  my  aige,  so  I  got  to  do 
my  fightin'  to  home.  I'm  willin'  to  stick  by  this  job 
if  you  say  the  word.  Mebby  some  folks  would  be 
dissap'inted,  but  I  can  stand  that  if  they  can.  What 
do  you  reckon  I  better  do?' 

"Now,  that's  what  I'd  say  if  John  was  here. 
Why  in  tarnation  can't  I  say  it  on  paper?    Lemme 


see." 


Bud  filled  a  sheet  with  his  large,  outdoor  script. 
When  he  had  finished,  he  tucked  the  letter  in  an 
envelope  hurriedly.  He  might  reconsider  his  attempt 
if  he  re-read  the  letter. 

He  was  carefully  directing  the  envelope  when 
Lorry  strode  in. 

"'Bout  time  you  showed  up,"  said  Shoop. 

Lorry  dropped  his  hat  on  the  floor  and  pulled  up 
a  chair.  He  was  a  bit  nervous.  Preamble  would 
make  him  more  so.  He  spoke  up  quickly. 

"Bud,  I  want  to  resign." 

"Uh-uh.  You  tired  of  this  job?" 

"Nope;  I  like  it." 

"Want  more  pay?" 

"No;  I  get  all  I'm  worth." 

"Ain't  you  feelin' well?" 

389 


Tang  of  Life 

"Bully!  I'm  going  to  enlist." 

"Might  'a'  knowed  it,"  said  Bud,  leaning  back 
and  gazing  at  the  newly  addressed  envelope  on  his 
desk.  "Got  your  reports  all  in?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Well,  seein'  you're  quittin'  for  the  best  reason 
I  know,  I'm  right  glad.  You  done  your  work  like 
I  expected.  Your  mother  knows  you're  goin'  to  jine 
the  army?" 

"I  told  her  yesterday.  I've  been  at  the  ranch." 

"Uh-uh.  How's  your  dad?" 

"He  ain't  so  spry.   But  he  is  better." 

"Uh-uh.  That  young  Mexican  stayin'  at  the 
ranch  with  him?" 

"You  could  n't  chase  Ramon  away  with  a  gun." 

"Uh-uh.  Well,  Lorry,  I  just  been  sweatin'  out  a 
letter  tellin'  John  Torrance  that  I've  quit.  I'm  goin' 
to  run  for  State  Senator." 

"I  knew  they  would  land  you.  Everybody  knew 
it." 

"So  we're  both  leavin'  the  Service.  And  we're 
leavin'  a  mighty  good  job;  mebby  not  such  big  pay, 
but  a  man's  job,  that  has  been  the  makin'  of  some 
no-account  boys.  For  no  fella  can  work  for  the  Serv- 
ice without  settin'  up  and  ridin'  straight.  Now, 
when  I  was  a  young  buster  chasin'  cow-tails  over 
the  country  I  kind  of  thought  the  Forestry  Serv- 
ice was  a  joke.  It  ain't.  It's  a  mighty  big  thing. 
You're  leaving  it  with  a  clean  record.  Mebby  some 

390 


The  High  Trail 

day  you'll  want  to  get  back  in  it.  Were  you  goin' 
on  up?" 

"I  figured  to  straighten  up  things  at  the  cabin." 

"All  right.  When  you  come  down  you  can  get 
your  check.  Give  my  regards  to  Bronson  and  the 
little  missy." 

"You  bet  I  will!" 

Bud  rose  and  proffered  his  hand.  Lorry,  rather 
embarrassed,  shook  hands  and  turned  to  go.  "See 
you  later,"  he  said. 

"I  was  going  over  to  Stacey,"  said  Shoop.  "Mebby 
I'll  be  out  when  you  get  back.  But  your  check '11  be 
here  all  right.  You  sure  look  like  you  was  walkin* 
on  sunshine  this  mawnin'.  Gosh,  what  a  whoopin* 
fine  place  this  here  world  is  when  you  are  young  — 

—  and  —  kind  of  slim!  Now,  Bondsman  and  me  — 
we  was  young  onct.   When  it  comes  to  bein'  young 

—  or  State  Senator  —  you  can  have  the  politics  and 
give  me  back  my  ridin'  legs.  You  're  ridin'  the  High 
Trail  these  days. 

"If  I  could  just  set  a  hoss  onct,  with  twenty  years 
under  my  hide,  and  look  down  on  this  here  country, 
and  the  sage  a-smellin'  like  it  used  to  and  the  sun- 
shine a-creepin'  across  my  back  easy  and  warm,  with 
a  sniff  of  the  timber  comin'  down  the  mawnin'  breeze; 
and  'way  off  the  cattle  a-lookin'  no  bigger 'n  flies 
on  a  office  map  —  why,  I  would  n't  trade  that  there 
seat  in  the  saddle  for  a  million  in  gold.  But  I  reckon 
I  would  'a'  done  it,  them  days.  Sometimes  I  set 

391 


Tang  of  Life 

back  and  say  'Arizona'  just  to  myself.  I'm  a-lovin* 
that  name.  Accordin'  to  law,  I'm  livin'  single,  and 
if  I  ain't  married  to  Arizona,  she's  my  best  gal, 
speakin'  general.  'Course,  a  little  lady  give  me  a 
watch  onct.  And  say,  boy,  if  she  sets  a  lot  of  store 
by  you  —  why,  you  —  why,  git  out  of  this  here 
office  afore  I  make  a  dam'  fool  of  myself!" 

And  the  genial  Bud  waved  his  arm,  blustering 
and  swearing  heartily. 

Bondsman  leaped  up.  A  ridge  of  hair  rose  along 
his  neck.  For  some  unknown  reason  his  master  had 
ordered  Lorry  to  leave  the  office  —  and  at  once.  But 
Lorry  was  gone,  and  Bud  was  patting  the  big  Airedale. 
It  was  all  right.  Nothing  was  going  to  happen.  And 
was  n't  it  about  time  for  the  stage  to  arrive? 

Bondsman  trotted  to  the  doorway,  gazed  up  and 
down  the  street,  and  came  back  to  Shoop.  The  stage 
had  arrived,  and  Bondsman  was  telling  Shoop  so  by 
the  manner  in  which  he  waited  for  his  master  to 
follow  him  into  the  sunlight.  Bud  grinned. 

"You're  tellin'  me  the  stage  is  in  —  and  I  got  a 
letter  to  send." 

Bud  picked  up  his  hat.  Bondsman  had  already 
preceded  him  to  the  doorway,  and  stood  waiting. 
His  attitude  expressed  the  extreme  patience  of  age, 
but  that  the  matter  should  be  attended  to  without 
unreasonable  delay.  Shoop  sighed  heavily. 

"That  there  dog  bosses  me  around  somethin' 
scandalous." 

392 


The  High  Trail 

Halfway  across  the  Blue  Mesa,  Dorothy  met  her 
ranger  man.  She  had  been  watching  the  trail.  Lorry 
dismounted  and  walked  with  her  to  the  cabin.  Bron- 
son  was  glad  to  see  him.  They  chatted  for  a  while. 
Lorry  would  have  spoken  of  his  father's  offer  —  of 
his  plans,  of  many  things  he  wished  Bronson  to  know, 
yet  he  could  not  speak  of  these  things  until  he  had 
talked  with  Dorothy.  He  would  see  Bronson  again. 
Meanwhile  — 

A  little  later  Lorry  went  to  his  cabin  to  take  stock  of 
the  implements  and  make  his  final  report.  He  swept 
the  cabin,  picked  up  the  loose  odds  and  ends,  closed 
the  battered  piano  gently,  and  sat  down  to  think. 

He  had  made  his  decision,  and  yet  —  he  had  seen 
Dorothy  again;  touched  her  hand,  talked  with  her, 
and  watched  her  brown  eyes  while  he  talked.  The 
Great  War  seemed  very  far  away.  And  here  he  was 
at  home.  This  was  his  country.  But  he  had  set  his 
face  toward  the  High  Trail.  He  could  not  turn  back. 

Dorothy  stood  in  the  doorway,  her  finger  at  her 
lips.  Bronson  was  busy  writing.  Lorry  rose  and 
stepped  out.  He  stooped  and  lifted  her  to  Gray  Leg. 
She  sat  sideways  in  the  saddle  as  he  led  the  pony 
across  the  mesa  to  the  veritable  rim  of  the  world. 

Far  below  lay  the  open  country,  veiled  by  the  soft 
haze  of  distance.  He  gave  her  his  hand,  and  she 
slipped  to  the  ground  and  stood  beside  him.  For  the 
first  time  the  tremendous  sweep  of  space  appalled 
her.  She  drew  close  to  him  and  touched  his  arm. 


Tang  of  Life 

"What  is  it,  Lorry?" 

"You  said  —  once  —  that  you  would  wait  for  me." 

"Yes.  And  now  you  are  here,  I'll  never  be  lone- 
some again." 

"Were  you  lonesome?" 

"A  little.  I  had  never  really  waited  —  like  that  — 
before." 

He  frowned  and  gazed  into  the  distances.  It  had 
been  easy  to  decide  —  when  alone.  Then  he  faced 
her,  his  gray  eyes  clear  and  untroubled. 

"I'm  going  to  enlist,"  he  said  simply. 

She  had  hoped  that  he  would.  She  wanted  to  think 
that  of  him.  And  yet,  now  that  he  had  spoken,  now 
that  he  was  actually  going —  Her  eyes  grew  big.  She 
wanted  to  say  that  she  was  glad.  Her  lips  trembled. 

He  held  out  his  arms.  She  felt  their  warm  strength 
round  her.  On  the  instant  she  thought  of  begging  him 
not  to  go.  But  his  eyes  were  shining  with  a  high  pur- 
pose that  shamed  her  momentary  indecision.  She 
pressed  her  cheek  to  his. 

"I  will  wait  for  you,"  she  whispered,  and  her  face 
was  wet  with  tears  of  happiness. 

She  was  no  longer  the  little  mother  and  he  her 
boy,  for  in  that  moment  he  became  to  her  the  man 
strength  of  the  race,  his  arms  her  refuge  and  his 
eyes  her  courage  for  the  coming  years. 

THE  END 


.  -  f 


*  ••/ 


^* 

. 

^_  — 


X 

? 


SEVENTH 


APR  23 
NOV  101936 


APh  17  '4Q 


YB  67106 


V 


6C3077 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


